Kneel not for the Gods are Silent
by nerevar-mora
Summary: Myrimae lives a simple life as a healer for the Thalmor, picking up the pieces of his life after a terrible accident. Nothing could prepare him for the chaos that a simple routine mission brings into his life, wiping away all memories of his past and thrusting him into a destiny he never asked for. In the company of an old friend and a mysterious Dunmer, can he save the world?
1. Chapter 1

(note: this story contains some sensitive content but it is NOT the focus of this work! this story is rated M for the moderate horror factor and the fact I am writing several characters with PTSD and we're dealing with canon typical violence in here. Anyways, consider this chapter a taster chapter despite it being pretty lengthy, it's set up for the real meat of the story! Can't promise any sort of upload schedule so uploads may be few and far between, that being said, please enjoy my labour of love!)

Copper bloodied tang and rotting damp choke the air in a miasma of death and wretched suffering, whispers light as breath flutter through the tainted air from the tainted mouths of the shadowed cult thriving under the wan tainted candlelight, flames flickering slowly as if their waxen bodies breathed in sync with the living. The cold stone walls, silent and grey, bear great cracks oozing with moisture, moss thriving in the little dark spaces, are as much a prison as the rusted bars of the cell door, the weathered metal still strong despite its apparent age. Why ponder on the age of this fetid hovel? Why ponder on any fleeting thought? Everything, every tiny detail, overlooked by most, has been committed to memory. Every crack, every speck of grime, all the stalwart moss and the red pools of blood, bodies laid in pools of their own life. Everything in miserable place reeks of the most wicked of sins, of the foulest deeps. It permeates the air, the stone, all of it. Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. A rhythmic __drip drip __of cold blood still flows from the last poor fool's flayed corpse is enough to stir the room's current captive into waking, the echoing sound cruelly stealing him from sleep's blissful embrace. The youthful mer, splayed on the altar like a pheasant ready for the pot, breath catching in his throat as he wakes, stuttering, knows not of his fate nor why he is held here, bolted down as a sacrifice to unnamed gods by an unnamed cult for unnamed perverse purposes. What he does know is that figures, about seven or eight, cloaked in languid shadows, flicker in the corners of the room, their black soulless eyes roaming over his prone form with little emotion save for both curiosity and judgment. They huddle in groups, like crows, voices like rough caws despite being little more than whispers, their cloaks and robes ebony feathers. A murder of cultists all talking as one voice, promises of power teasing them, perverting them into monsters wearing mortal flesh. The prisoner sucks in a sharp breath of rancid air, almost gagging on his own bile. This place has only ever seen death, this he is sure of, he can __taste __it. It is no place for the living. The room, the candles, the cultists, the altar, the walls all drip with it, crimson and weeping, dyed like a sunset over the Eltheric ocean that he can recall from his days of freedom. He shudders in his bonds, shackles jingling like bells, a cold dread settling over him as consciousness takes back full control.

An urge rises. Thrash, fight, fall into nonsensical madness, let it feast upon the rational senses left and thrush what remains into a bloody battle of gnashing teeth and cutting claws. But he can't do that. He can't go through __that __again, no never again, the mere thought sends more violent shivers through his pale form, what little sanity he has left crying for him to lay still and silent, to not attract more sinister gazes than what already lingers upon him. If they see any kind of pathetic weakness they'll cut it away from him with those cruel blades of ebony, glowing ruby under candlelight, their delighted smiles illuminated crimson. __Chop chop chop, __until all the parts of him that are mer are gone, leaving only bare bone and ribbons of tattered flesh, tortured body giving in to the cold call of the void at long last. What they cut from him, what their hands rend, will just join the rest of him on the ground that already seeps between ancient flagstones, joining the soil, flowing into the dirt far neath the tunnels and cells of this horrible prison. Maybe some part of him will make it back home, somehow, a vain hope but fools oft cling to flights of fancy in their final hours. No, the mer refuses to think like that, he refuses. Short breaths, closed eyes, he forces himself to calm, to quell his shaking, he doesn't want to lose anymore of himself, enough has already been taken. Silent. Still. He's still sleeping, still far from this world of stone and blood and chains and pain. There is no need to join the defiled dead this day, their souls have been twisted and perverted, wailing as if they are new born, suffering even after their bodies have been splayed around the altar for __days, __slowly rotting away, the stench unbelievable. Blue eyes refuse to open, to look upon the butchered flesh of fellow mer scattered like grotesque trophies all over the room, decorating the cultist's abode like a beast's nest, skulls still red, eyes still in their sockets. Don't look into their eyes, __they can still see __. Hands, wrenched over head, bound by cold rusted iron that cuts and makes the warm red come from the wrist tremble once again as he swallows down each bitter breath, memories replaying the whips and burnings, beatings and defilement. __They __like to play games, these men and women. Foul, wicked games they do and gods they __hate __him, they hate him so incredibly much it is without reason. He swallows the bitterness that rises in his throat back, sputtering, heaving, a soft whine tumbling from bruised lips. The quiet titters increase in volume and more of those so very empty eyes turn to look, panic fluttering in his chest like a bird desperately trying to flee it's cage.

If only he could fight back, if only he could show these wicked madmen whom they truly had chained to their altar. If he could there would be a reckoning the likes Tamriel had never seen before, there'd be nothing left, not a scrap, not a whisper. His own flames would lick at their skin, twisting their features into expressions of agony, as their flames had done his. He'd spill their blood if he had a blade on hand, slitting the throat, severing the spine, metal dancing over breathing warm flesh, their blood spilling over his weak hands. Do it quick, do it quiet, if only to avoid this cursed place from seeing even more prolonged sufferings than it already had. Such thoughts have plagued him for days… weeks? Not even the Divines know how long he's rotted down here in this grievous pit! Not that they care, not that they ever cared. Fuck the Divines, and the Daedra and all the other bastard gods too! All these thoughts, these violent delusions and he can't do a damn thing, not even move an inch, for he, as their prisoner, is bolted down to the altar, a fat swine fit for the slaughter, wounds aching with a burning almost kin to terrible fever. It'll never end, he'll never know peace from this, not even with all his knowledge and power. He knows the school of Restoration well, has studied it for years even if, as an assassin, he'd never need to rely on it. Damn it all he could heal himself if he just had the strength that they've bled from him, but he does not, all his years even less than useless. And he knows that even if he did have the energy for even a quick spell, that if he could ease his sufferings even slightly, the cult would fall upon him like starved wolves quickly undoing his hard work with a happy smile. What will it be this time, morbid curiosity asks. A knife to play on a breathing rib cage? Flames to scorch, skin bubbling as they run bloodied hands over pale gold skin? Or will their master come, lifting legs and smiling sweetly at as he takes him as if he were his newly wed bride? __Anything but that __. He'll take the beatings, the fire, the knives, just anything, anything in this whole world, but that. Tears trickle from his eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, the question of ' __why me? __' echoing through his weary mind. What did he ever do to these people, these faceless shadows, to deserve this? Why couldn't he just die like the rest of their prisoners and be done with this all? An urge rises, an urge to scream.

It grows, the urge, breathing suddenly morphing into a struggle, sickness rising in his throat like a beast clawing to escape it's prison. Not only blood makes the air vile, his head pounding, his heart __aching __, whole body rejecting the stench of death. Everyone whom came to save him is dead. Everyone. Trained mages, soldiers, assassins, rangers and everything in between fell broken at the cult's feet begging for a mercy that does not exist. Everybody knows he's down here, in the catacombs of some crumbling fortress, waiting for the moment he will join the dismembered pieces of his allies on the sodden floor but nobody will come. They've learnt now, they know better than to try to save a lost cause. This fetid hole, Divines know what it truly is, will be his final resting place, with or without intervention. Ruin, fort, castle, temple, shrine, tomb. The tunnels run deep into the earth like the twisting bowels of a ravenous beast. Even if they do come back, by some miracle, they'll never reach him in time. Too slow, too far. His thoughts break down into madness looping over one another, over each other and in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Good, it's better than the sorrow and gnawing hunger, better than cold dread and mindless panic.

The thick air buzzes with incantations, almost song-like prayers that the shadowed group call out in vile reverence to a master he can't name, a master he doesn't want to name. With half a mind left, broken as it is, he can make guesses, __many __guesses and none of them good. But they're staring at him with those eyes like endless pits of darkness, staring deep into his soul like they can read every thought. He keeps his guesses to himself and bites his tongue. They want to flay his soul from his failing body with their piercing gazes alone, to suck him down into the void, hands dragging him down into the inky blackness, never to be seen again, almost like he never existed to begin with. All their eyes are dark as moonless midnight, never blinking, only gazing. The prisoner stares back, wide eyed and shuddering so hard his bonds rattle, metal clinking against metal, a stuttering mournful song. Fear is roused from slumber it's cold tendrils uncoiling spreading their chill through the captive's blood like poison. They know he's awake, well, it's likely they __knew __he'd rejoined the waking world. They __always __know. Everything, all the little details about everything does. The thought is not comforting in the slightest and only serves to quicken his laboured breathing, a pained wheezing sounding out. A rustling of fabric, the group closes in fast, surrounding their hostage with cold and unfeeling smiles, looking down upon the poor elf as if proud of the dread they inspire.

He __hates __their fiends only smile when it hurts the most. It's a message they're sending him, a decree making certain he knows today is one of those days where all he can do is screw his eyes shut and battle with breath, riding through the motions like one may wait for a storm to pass. He looks from face to face, gaze sweeping over the gathered, eyes pleading silently for some form of reprieve, for some form of mercy. But they simply stand there, politely grinning as if greeting an old friend. Footsteps echo in the distance, even and sure, never faltering, the cult whispering amongst themselves, knowing not what this coming means but reveling in it nonetheless. The imprisoned mer thrashes, a desperate need to escape clouding his senses even as those iron bonds tear cruelly into already abused flesh, a new trickle of warm blood flowing down pale arms, into filthy brown hair and over a tear stained face, eyes wide and fearful. Louder and louder the footsteps ring out in the silence, crashing like thunder, coming closer and closer until the sound is all consuming, the only thing occupying all of the poor elf's senses. Maddeningly wonderful, like a song building to its crescendo only for it to stop dead, an empty sense of __something __fluttering in the void it leaves behind. A single figure parts the crowd, their heads bowed, muttered blessings falling from each cultist's tongue. The figure moves with grace, black robes sweeping over the soiled ground as black as smoke and as heavy as an oncoming storm, a tired look worn on his sunken features, green eyes bruised and blond hair a tangled mess. Imposing, even like this.

The captive drinks him in, hate seeping into his marrow at the sight of this wicked man, fear slowly ebbing away under anger's burning heat. This fiend, this monster! He's had them fooled, all of them, since day one! Father always treated him as if he'd always been his family, like he'd known him since birth as his beloved wife had, and he in turn treated father in kind. Friendly banter over dinner, warm summer nights spent in the garden, sneaking treats before lunch with a chuckle and a wink. All that trust, that love and it's repaid like __this __. Uncle, he had once called the necromancer, family, bearing the same blood. How long has he planned this for? How many years has each friendly gesture been laced with dark desires? Every fond memory is tainted, black ink spilling carelessly over those cherished moments, even the ones the captive holds close to his heart. Baking sweets together to give to mother when she felt down, weekends spent sleeping over in his tower, uncle showing his favourite nephew his collection of magical items. Even the bad memories, of their fights, their argument when he followed in his father's footsteps, sting even more now, especially as he stares down upon the prisoner with a look of utter disgust. This was no spur of the moment decision, no sudden flight of fancy, oh no, this whole charade has been planned years in advance, he's been lying through his teeth this whole time. It's sick. It's disgusting. Why? The question yearns to be asked. Why him? Why now? Over and over again, bouncing off the walls, repeating endlessly with now answer in sight. It is madness that grips the necromancer, madness fuelled by hate, by fear. There is no other reason, there can be no other but it does not satisfy the question asked. A hand cold as bitter winter comes to rest above a beating heart, flesh feverish, a whimper leaping from the captive's mouth.

_"___Don't hurt me…"__

Weak, small, his voice trembles like a child being scolded, how utterly wretched he sounds. Not a sound passes between them, even the cult fades away into the bleak background, the candles still flickering away. The necromancer gazes into his soul with those green eyes like piercing glass daggers, delving deep into the depths as if searching for a secret hidden there. A scowl, there is nothing else within, his captive but an empty husk, weeks of suffering tearing the youth down into a damaged mess of madness. With a sigh he pulls away, almost disappointed that this game has run its course, holding out his hand to the closest of his servants, a dagger of ebony placed into his waiting palm. An ugly sensation rises within the prisoner, something violent and desperate, a beast waking from slumber, starved and furious. Beyond furious. It wails out a battle-cry, seething with blood-lust, with the need to escape. He thrashes in his bonds again, more blood welling from his wounds, the rattle of the chains sounding like the chaos of war.

_"___You will pay for this treachery, you will! It may take months, it may take years but they'll find you and they'll kill you! Die you bastard, die! Die damn you, die, die!"__

Rage is all he has left, it's the only thing he's been able to cling to for all the time he's been rotting down in the damp. So far it's kept him alive, these spikes of violence enough to frighten away the weaker willed cultist and keep them at bay but it seems this fury may come to be his epitaph. Anger is better than the fear, better than succumbing to the cold embrace of depression. The hot fury chases the numbness after those deeds away, an outlet for his agony, an outlet to curse every name he knows. From absent mother to careless father, selfish sister and cold blooded killers. There is no lover to kiss away the pain, to wipe the tears from his eyes. No embraces to warm his nights or soft words spoken in earnest. No, there is nothing. He'll die down here, like the rest of them, just another name on a list of many. Yes, they know he's here but every attempt has been met with failure. But these bastards will burn, each and every one of them, that is certain, yes, but it'll be long after he's already gone from this world, that too is certain. They will come, with torch and blade, with fury in their hearts, wearing death like a veil of smoke and they will reduce this place to rubble, wipe it from all maps, close off the tunnels. It'll be like it never existed, like none of this ever happened. No mercy for the guilty, no mercy for the sinners, only justice supreme. But the necromancer simply sighs, a icy hand caressing the prisoner's cheek, wholly unimpressed with his tirade and completely unconcerned with what the future may bring but wearing a soft look, one of fondness. He jerks away from the touch. Those hands have committed the most wicked of acts, he knows what they're capable of, has experienced what they're capable of and he will no longer allow such violation. He is no longer a child, he understands the gravity of what has been done in this place, it matters not either way, his fate is sealed.

_"___You've become much like that father of yours my boy, the same violent temper, the same severe stare. My what a little killer you've flourished into, trying to make him proud are we? Trying to follow in big brother's footsteps?," __The touch is only light, his voice almost coloured by mirth but the captive can taste the bitterness under his words, __"You should have taken my offer little songbird, you'd be stood by my side not on my lord's altar. A pity, you've always been skilled, always had a quick wit and a smart mind, much more clever than the rest of our kin, you could have been most beneficial to our plans. Ah, no matter, that was another you, still innocent and easily manipulated but now you've grown and gone and become sharp as a blade. It was a stroke of luck I even managed to snare you! Well, your usefulness has come to an end, a little too clever for your own good, not even letting slip one secret, could have saved your life my boy. Pity, pity I suppose you'll have to… ah what was it you said again? Die, damn you, die…"__

An absence of cold fingers, the necromancer steps back black robes framing a body barely more than bones, skin pallid and eyes wild, insanity running wild through the man's shattered mind. This pitiful beast is not the kind uncle from the captive's youth, the one with the gentle encouragement and constant support, the one with the funny jokes and thoughtful nature, oh no, this man before him is infected. Infected with the curse of the Madgod. There it little time to dwell on that, the fondness leaks from the necromancer as he pulls a dagger from the shadows, the ebony blade glinting in the candlelight, it's shine as bright as the first rays of sunlight. A breath passes between then, the whole cult whispering prayers, their voices shrill as birdsong, almost musical and all speaking as one. One breath, two breaths and he's walking forwards again, blade raised high in one hand, the other weaving magic. Three breaths and he's almost there, eyes blank, mouth forming words the prisoner has never heard before. Four breaths and he's by the altar, the cult's prayers becoming feverish cries of ecstasy as they beg, no __plead __, for blood to satiate their grim appetite. Five breaths and the world is bathed in in an eerie purple glow, the colour like the last kiss of dusk before the black of night shrouds the world in its embrace of shadows. Six breaths, one hand plunging down. The dagger slices through flesh as if it were as thin as air, the blade digging through bone and organ alike, burying itself in a breathing rib cage, red fountaining out, the prisoner choking on blood and bile. He gurgles and screams, his terrible song filling every nook and cranny, every crack and chip, bleeding in between the stones, becoming part of the tombs, soaking in like the crimson that wets the ground. Struggle. The bonds still cut deep. Face now covered in the gore, tears not able to cut a path through the red. Black creeps in, slowly, slowly, glassy blue eyes staring up into the eyes of the necromancer, searching for remorse but finding none. Green… green like the leaves on mother's trees, like the grass, like the emerald on his ring, like his brother's eyes, the same shade.

Slowly his thrashing ceases, blood simply welling up and flowing freely down his beaten body, dripping onto the altar, onto the floor. Something is pulling him, pulling him down and outwards, towards something, a purple haze settling in over the world. Another spell? It's so hard to think now, thoughts sluggish, like running through mud, his body becoming comfortably numb to the pain, sound distant like swimming underwater. Is this what dying feels like? It's not so bad after all… Is this really all it is? A silent quick death after weeks of suffering, weeks of torture? What a laugh. __Perhaps __, he thinks in a state of numbness, as lightning rains down and flames set alight to all around him, metal clashing upon metal and furious screams fill the air, __this is all some sick joke __. Is it fate? Does this serve a greater purpose? What silly final thoughts to have, much like a child's ponderings on things beyond their ken. It'd be nice to see though if that were true, that this is ordained by the gods, fated to be by something greater. Gods rarely answer pleas for mercy, as if such a thing could exist in a world as cruel as this. There is no mercy, not here, in this moment. A thing like that couldn't survive long when people act like rabid dogs, determined to only cause suffering, cutting down others for their own gains. Mercy would be a failure within seconds, her kindness short lived and perverted into sinister shadows of what it once was. Bodies drop to the floor in heaps of black and red, heads torn from shoulders, flames burning them to ashes before glassy blue eyes. War is raging all around him but he can't feel anything anymore, he's too far gone, a blessing perhaps. Eyes can see little flickers of something, colours moving in the gloom, little glimmers of light twinkling like distant stars. He daren't blink. If he does, he's gone, slipping away into whatever waits beyond this __. __But there's that feeling again, like hands are reaching up from the void, bidding him join them in a parade of endless souls awash in pale lavender tones, bodies blinking in and out of focus, like ocean waves. An empty peace but does that matter? He'll take it, there's nothing else he has. The prisoner feels his heart stop, his breath cease, life snuffed out.

He watches the necromancer meet his own death, an Altmer with hair as black as ink tearing into him with a cry of anguish and betrayal. Their eyes meet for a moment, blue and green clashing, something between them singing, __screaming __, a bond impossibly strong like invisible threads of steel. It snaps as the necromancer hits the ground and life rushes back into him all at once, a torrent of sensations assaulting him from all directions. Pain, fear, light, cold, __pain __! It hurts, gods it __hurts __so bad! Why is he alive, __why is he alive __?! He'd begged, prayed for days to the Eight, to the Daedra, to Auriel and even Lorkhan at one point to be saved. This isn't salvation! This is agony, this is __worse __than anything that came before! What kind of cruel miracle is this?!

_"___Myrimae? Why is he screaming like that I thought... I don- Oh gods, __oh gods __! ... We...we need a healer here, now!"__

Someone fills his vision once again, fire and gold and burning like the candles, bright as the sun, their hands pressing on open wounds, their voice babbling senseless nonsense. He'd thought he'd die without sunlight, without warmth. Oh how he wishes to be cold again as those hands attempt to gift him salvation, searing hot, burning even. Garbled words spill from his mouth, hoarse and strange, nothing makes sense in this new existence he finds himself thrust into. He can almost feel the concern in the air, the worry, the panic. Let it end, let him rest! He continues to rant, unknowingly, without end until his voice fails, body growing weak again as whatever magic sustained his revival drains away as easily as water.

_"___How did you ever get into such a state, how did I ever let this happen? … You fool, you utter fool, you always get into such trouble, always making us worry about you, off on adventures. What'll be the excuse this time, I wonder? You can be so terrible a lying, or at least I thought so… you've had me fooled for years love. Don't… don't you dare leave me. Come now, open those eyes, wake up… wake up…"__

* * *

Myrimae rejoins the waking world with a stuttered gasp, the iron tang of blood still lingering in his mouth, bitter and heavy, brow dripping with sweat, brown hair clinging to his fair golden skin. He blinks, slowly, blue eyes adjusting to the gloom of early dawn, the sun only just beginning to paint the skies in amber honey tones. A shiver runs through him, from the tips of his ears all the way to his toes, leaving him shaking even inside his roll and swaddled like a babe under many furs, and he knows it is not due to the chill of the Jeralls either. That was, well put frankly, bad. Perhaps the worst he's been since he was dragged away from his peaceful little life back in Alinor by a certain someone who absolutely just had to have a competent healer and would not and could not ask anyone else but him. What a pile of absolute, well, he's already spewed a heap of expletives about all this there is little need to dwell on it further. Hand on heart he feels his breathing even out, lets the lingering panic slip away back into the shadows whence it came. For a moment he simply lays in the gloom, letting the sounds of the camp wash over him like a warm summer breeze. Idle chatter, a crackling fire, soft wind rustling through the tents, feet crunching in the snow. Peaceful if not for the gravity of their duties. With an aching sigh Myrimae pushes himself up rubbing his hands over his face trying to wipe away the last dregs of his grogginess. Just a dream, just a nightmare, nothing more, he tells himself, this will pass in time like all things must. A foolish mistake with dire consequences that not only impact him but his work and therefore those around him. Look where it's gotten him… freezing his rear off in the ass end of Tamriel to start.

" __Ah, __I was wondering just when you were going to join me, my dear brother. Today is certainly not the day for you to be laying neath those furs until you pluck up the courage to face the chill."

Silvery white hair, not unlike the snow bathing each inch of earth outside the warm confines of their tent frames the pale golden, and slightly irritated, looking face of his brother Aetherian who gazes down on him with sharp green eyes like a bird of prey sizing up a mouse before swooping in for the kill. Ever so dignified even when fretting. Even when reining in his lightning like fury. Myrimae just sighs, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to untangle it and do away with the knots while he tries very hard to ignore his brother. Neither of them have a desire to address the issue at hand, even if it is inevitable that it'll be brought up in conversation some how. They're both tired of it, both know and understand what comes of it but neither are willing to stitch the wound closed and instead leave it raw and oozing, only festering the longer they let this problem run wild without supervision. But Myrimae knows, just like how Aetherian knows, that this isn't just going to be fixed easily, if ever, and yet they haven't even started trying. The questions have already been asked, again and again, repeating endlessly until Myrimae can remember each one by heart, can recite them back to himself, ask each and everyone in silence. He has no answers that he hasn't already given. The questions flow not just from Aetherian's mouth when he speaks in soft hushed tones, fear controlling his actions, causing him to worry, oh no. Father asks sometimes, as if he's simply confirming a fact, simply grasping the gravity of it all and mother may whisper a little something on it if she's brave enough. But it's not only them, if it were just his kin Myrimae thinks he could bear the constant interrogation! But it's not. It's __everyone __. Everyone always __asks __the same damn questions, over and over, until the words chase each other in dizzy circles, until his usual patient and gentle attitude is put to the test. __Yes __it's the same nightmare again, always is, and yes it's plaguing what should be a calm healing sleep, twisting it into a horror that leaves him with a sick feeling of ' __did that really happen?' __sitting heavy within. And again he tells himself, no, __no __, it couldn't have, even if the scar on his chest aches when he recalls the moment that blade plunges down, ripping through flesh and bone, pulling soul from physical form. It's trauma, from the accident. He's sick, it's all there is to it, he's sick and should be resting at home.

'__The Accident', __what a crass name to give his one moment of stupidity. A foolish attempt at magic beyond his level, or so he's been told, the event has been scrubbed from his mind like dirt from tiles, clean enough to eat from. What kind of misguided idiocy drove him to do such things, to vastly overestimate his skills as a mage and effectively ruin the rest of his life in an instant. Nothing remains of the once assassin he vaguely recalls himself being except trauma and a mind broken into shards of glass that can only reflect the distorted horrors of his dreams conjured to stop him facing reality. If his nightmares are like __that __he'd rather face the truth of his traumas than continue living in fear of each time he lays his head to rest. A sigh, the rustling of fabric and Aetherian kneels in front of him, brow creased in worry and nibbling at his lower lip as he does when pondering over a problem. Slowly, carefully, he reaches forward, as if dealing with a startled animal and places both gloved hands on his younger brother's shaking shoulders, a silent ask for him to raise his head. Myrimae knows what comes next. A tirade of nonsense or a stern telling off.

"Dear I know this is hard but this charade has gone on long enough. We cannot allow this to continue to have a negative impact on our lives. Come now, rise and we can put this whole sordid affair behind us." His tone is even, calm, as if he's talking to one of his agents, not his own flesh and blood.

"Right, uh, I'll be a moment, I had a __nightmare __and I just need to. Well, I just need to take a minute or so to get over it Aeth. I'll be fine."

Neither of them move, not an inch, Aetherian's disappointed glare burning down with the intensity of a hundred suns and Myrimae doing his absolute best to ignore it, gaze downcast and tilted away from his brother, even as the older mer keeps him in place. That gaze alone has reduced much more wilful subjects to whimpering messes and Myrimae does not fancy his chances should he meet his brother of even ground. He's shaken, from the visions in his dreams and from a small niggling fear squirming deep within that whispers uncertainties to him, that fills him with thoughts that today is going to end in disaster. He keeps his gaze low, fingers nervously playing with the sleeve of his tunic. Nobody has ever managed to wriggle away from Aetherian's grasp, not him, not his other siblings, not even their __father __if he's determined enough to give someone a verbal lashing, he almost feels pity for the prisoners they let Aetherian loose on. __Almost. __He chances a peek and he's wearing __that __look, a clear sign he is indeed in store for a taste of his fury.

" __Myrimae __…," Oh by the Eight, here it comes. He sighs, giving in and meeting his brother's glare head on, "You do know how I feel about this already, yes?" A nod, " __Good __. I do so detest early starts, especially if my __agents __, my own __brother __no less begin to test my already very thin patience. So get yourself ready and... oh."

"Oh?" That does not sound good, Myrimae braces himself for what comes next.

Those hands finally lift from his shoulders, black leather gently caressing his face instead, a softer, more worried look suddenly seizing Aetherian's features as he does so, soulful green eyes turning pleading.

"You've been crying in your sleep again, Mae, haven't you? Oh you poor dear! Let me get you a washcloth and some water so you can tidy yourself up!"

Oh no, not the __sympathy__, anything but that! Myrimae utters a silent plea, begging, for the love of the Eight, for Aetherian to go back to being mildly annoyed, he can handle annoyed! He'll do anything, just not the damned __sympathy__! Aetherian is predictable when his ire has been aroused, all barbed insults and wicked words, voice lashing out like a whip, every syllable dripping with venom. But he can be calmed, he can be fought. When sad? When worried and sympathetic? Divines what then? He turns soft, kind, will fuss without end and no matter what one does he just wont stop! Myrimae spent __months__ resting and recovering from his accident while getting doted on by everyone, especially his siblings, and Aetherian most of all. He's sick of his sympathy and fussing. Being the youngest, therefore the baby of the family, they all feel the need to take care of him like one might a bird that tumbled from its nest, never mind that he very much has the ability fight off anyone who'd try to do him even the slightest lick of harm, thank you very much. But no, everyone has to fight his battles for him, everyone has to dote on him like a pampered pet. And Aetherian is the worst, inclined to dramatics that one, completely overdoing everything he pours his energy into. Myrimae recalls it vividly, back when he were laid up in his room, swaddled in sheets like a newborn. Fresh flowers everyday, plucked thoughtlessly from their homes, do you need your pillows fluffing? More soup? '__Need a hug from your dear big brother Mae? Oh wait injuries I forgot, silly me, perhaps something else__!'. It was a nightmare, it was exhausting, never mind the terrors that lie in wait for him each night, eager to sap his strength by waking him into a sleepless dark. It was all wrong, __he's__ the one trained in the healing arts, not his brother, being treated like a fragile babe goes against everything he's learnt over his years of study! Yes it's silly, perhaps even childish to think such thoughts but he knows how the injured and ailing think, understands them in a way Aetherian will never learn to grasp. Some want to be fussed over, usually the ones who don't need the help or are so damaged they seek comfort from anyone who is willing to give it while others will scorn any aid possible out of some lofty sense of pride. Mae is not one to beg for comfort he has no need of, nor will he ask if he truly needs it. He has no want to be waited on hand and foot everyday of his life, and he certainly has no want for Aetherian's fussing. With a weary sigh, he grasps his brother's wrist anchoring him to the spot.

"It's only another bad nightmare, I can wash my fac-"

"How bad is bad?" Aetherian cuts in, lacing his fingers with his brother and pulling his hand flush to his chest, tone verging on near frantic, his own hands shaking.

"It's not th-"

"How. Bad? Do I need to worry? Should I have you sent back to the Imperial City? Do you need help, someone to talk to? Oh by the Eight what am I going to write in my report back to your healers in Alinor?"

Oh what is the point? Aetherian won't calm his worry, nor will he give pause to listen to his brother's pleas. Myrimae sighs deeply, giving a small shake of his head as he realises there's no winning this, not today, not ever, and that's just how it is. The one thing he really doesn't want to discuss this morning is his nightmares, especially while the memory of the one he just escaped from dances behind his eyelids teasing him with those wretched scenes of depravity his mind conjures up from the depths. He still __feels __it, as if it truly happened, ghosts of feeling tickling his senses, like cold hands clawing at his insides sending sharp jolts of panic through his being, his chest aching. Dagger lodged in deep, blade slicing through flesh and bone, the heat of his blood rapidly draining as the blade moves every time he dares to thrash in those accursed shackles, a great red puddle forming around him. Uncle's hand caressing his face, a demented expression of __something __twisting his features from kindly and wrinkled to grim and unhinged, eyes wild as they drink in the carnage. He even remembers the __other __parts of it, how his bones were broken and mended over and over like some sort of game, a sick perversion of the powers he uses to better the world, one injury at a time. What a horrible, vile thing to create. Aetherian must sense his disquiet, clutching his shaking hand harder to his chest so that Myrimae can barely feel his fingers, his other arm wrapping around his younger brother's shoulders, offering what little support he can give. __How __could he dream up such a __sick __demented scenario? Was his trauma that bad that his mind had to create a perverse fantasy world where his sufferings were weaved into the most disgusting of acts, performed over and over again upon his already shattered form in order to hide himself from the truth? It's just not fair! Is it a metaphor for how broken he is by this? Myrimae doesn't know, no longer wants to know despite his ponderings on the matter even if it troubles him day and night, even if he can taste a kernel of truth in this nightmares. And he is troubled, greatly by that fact, not knowing why he'd wake in the dead of night, tears on his cheeks, sometimes screaming, sometimes silent but always, __always __shaking that wicked feeling fluttering in his chest telling him it was all real. It troubles him less now, after months of dealing with it, but he still wakes in a fright, blindly searching for the first person whose arms may offer him reprieve. Aetherian waits expectantly, soft mumbles of comfort piercing through his twisting thoughts, slaying the darkness that lurks there, dispelling the fog that surrounds him. If his brother is good for anything, it's drawing one's attention, even if he often shuns his aide.

"It was bad. Perhaps the worst since that first month, back when I couldn't leave my rooms, remember? You moved in with me, for a time." He sucks in a sharp breath, staring into those verdant depths, "I __think __I died? Yeah, maybe, I'm not sure. You were there, I think, father was too. It's rather hard for me to describe this whole thing but it's not much different from all the other nightmares…"

"One of __those __dreams again?"

Ah and there it is. That's all that needs to be said on the matter. One of __those __. Myrimae does appreciate Aetherian's caution, back in the early days the simple mention of the contents of his dreams could send him into a panic, near inconsolable and damn impossible for the healers to handle. But he's sick of it, sick of dancing round the question. It's always one of those dreams, why even ask? If Aetherian wants to invoke his wrath he's going about it perfectly because he's beginning to get seriously irked with all this needless chatter! __One of those dreams __, the gall! Why not ask the question they both know he wants to ask? Straight up, no beating around the bush, no sugar coating the details, just spit it out. Mae glares at his brother, hoping his blue eyes portray his fury, hoping he seems as cold as the snow outside but all he meets is apologetic softness, the knowledge that his brother knows he's annoyed his younger greatly. Aetherian does not look impressed with him, despite that, one elegant brow quirked, mouth pulled down slightly in an unhappy frown; he's thoroughly done with his baby brother's antics it seems and his only want for him to just let him help. Moody sod, he changes like the weather during the height of summer. One moment he's sunshine, scorching hot, pleasant on the skin, bathing the world in his love and joy but give him a second or so and he becomes a __storm, __tears falling like fat raindrops, anger lashing out like lightning, voice rumbling as the thunder in his tempest of violent emotions. Emotional and erratic. Myrimae supposes it runs in the family, he scarce keeps himself in check, coming to verbal blows with a certain __someone __more times than he likes to admit to himself. But Aetherian loosens his crushing grip on his hand, thumb tracing his knuckles absentmindedly, the arm looping over his shoulder a pleasant weight, it's hard to stay angry with him for long. Exasperated yes, but not angry.

"Mae, darling?" A quiet prompt, an urge to speak.

"Yes…" He finally replies with a deep sigh, leaning back, eyes towards the roof of the tent, "It was one of __those __dreams. It always is, you don't need to keep asking me like this."

"Well my dear brother if you didn't act so awkward and dance around your answers I wouldn't have to be so insistent in my questioning. You know that I must report everything back to our higher ups, especially since one of said higher ups is our own father, and you know that if I keep anything from the healers it could damage your health!"

Myrimae snaps his gaze back down to his brother's face, suddenly shoving his arms away and scooting backwards, Aetherian simply rolling his eyes at his childish behaviour.

"Mae, I understand it can be frustrating but-"

" __Frustrating __? You think being asked to relive that terror again and again is frustrating? I'm sick of it, I'm tired of telling everyone the same things over and over think you understand but you don't, you can't. I know this is awkward for you, for everyone. I'm supposed to be an assassin, a spy, a thief, but I can't even lift a blade without feeling the need to heave and I don't even __remember __the accident. Aeth I don't want to just be another one of your assignments, I don't want to just be another thing to report to the higher ups." By the end Myrimae finds himself feeling empty, like a flood of emotions poured from him leaving him hollow on the inside but at least Aetherian has the humility to look a little guilty.

Aetherian holds his arms outwards, open, waiting, and Myrimae accepts this apology in silence, nestling up against his chest, listening to the soft beating on his heart. Shame colours his cheeks in blush, he shouldn't of shouted even if Aetherian deserved it. He was finally was able to express some of the violent emotions that bubbled neath a soft exterior of kindness and tolerance after so long of keeping quiet, he's getting sick of quiet. Father spent years showing him how to walk the shadows, how to slit a throat in silence, how to not be seen but he finds himself yearning for more than that. Yearning to shed his cloak of midnight and stand basking in the sunlight. Myrimae craves to be seen, to be more than just another blade in service to the Dominion. He refuses to be another delicate flower that needs watering, or a jewel to be polished to a shine, or even a trophy to be displayed in front of everyone and only displayed and dusted when needed. He's a person, with his own thoughts, his own troubles. Myrimae will not be another tragedy for his family to mourn, no he refuses. He came here, to the ass end of the empire to work, to earn his keep, even if he has to dip back into that languid darkness, even if his tongue must drip with lies once again. No more shall he sit on his rear and weep over what he's lost, no more shall he simply be another drain on resources complaining about his weaknesses all day long. Aetherian cradles him gently, softly humming a lullaby from their childhood and Myrimae thinks that maybe, __maybe __it's all right to rely on others, just this once.

"I was not aware you harboured such feelings, dear." A sigh escapes the older mer in the wan light of early dawn, "Forgive me for being so blind to your plights, and for drowning out your protests in favour of laying my own misgivings to rest when it is you whom I should be listening to." He pulls away, his warmth following leaving Myrimae shivering in the cool air, "You are no longer a child, even if I will forever see you as one, I cannot expect you to remain untouched by this world's cruelty. I miss the days where you would so eagerly seek out my attention, perhaps we will never return to what we had, I suppose I fear that change. Ah, but I've rambled enough!" He stands, all grace, long robes sweeping the ground as he rises tutting at the dirt, "Take the time you need but don't tarry too long. If you don't meet me in the main tent once the sun has fully risen I'll be back to collect you, dressed or not."

With a small incline of the head, Aetherian departs from their shared sleeping accommodations out into the world that only just begins to take on a sweet honey tint. A moment passes. And another. Myrimae flops back down into his furs and pillows a groan leaving him before he settles back to watch his breath make small plumes of white, like little clouds, in the chilly Skyrim air. It is much too early fuck such emotional escapades, especially while out in one of their secluded camps between Cyrodiil and Skyrim where their business could be easily made public property and he damn well knows Aetherian will have his head should any scandal be attached to his name, despite all the brotherly love he preached. There's nothing the soldiers loved more than scandal and a reason to make fun of the mages, especially those in power. He sighs watching his breath dance around the tent for a moment, letting his mind clear so he can finally think about much more important things, like today's assignment for instance. It's a couple hours ride down the mountains in freezing cold conditions, ice and snow making the trip treacherous not only for their mounts but for their guard as well. At this point Myrimae thinks that the Lady Ambassador should just go escort herself to the execution rather than call for aid from the Cyrodiil branch. Perhaps she is guided by a misplaced sense of pride, and a need to display her power over her province, not that any of them truly cared what she thought, they served Aetherian or the general and Aetherian has never much liked that woman anyway. Called her many insults both behind closed doors in private company and to her face, completely unrepentant. Incompetent was one such word he used, how dare she let those dirty Talos cultists run rampant, some influence and sway she had! Myrimae asks no questions on the matter, he's here simply to carry the potions and make the Ambassador look good, not get involved with politics and infighting, especially between a pair of snappish and foul tempered spymasters. He's experienced his brother's level of petty and heard his wicked insults first hand, if this Ambassador can go toe to toe with him, he greatly does not wish for them to be at each other's throats.

Best get up and get ready or he'll still be musing over their internal politics when a certain someone bursts back into their tent and gives him yet another ear full. If only he could just stay in bed all day and not face the winter chill but, alas, he does have a job to do so with a sigh Myrimae pulls himself free from his roll, dressing in his robes as quickly as he can and splashing his face with water bringing himself out of his sleepy state just in for for a pair of armoured boots clunk over to his dwelling and roughly pull open the flaps of his tent. So much for privacy. Dawn's wan early light floods in, bathing the interior in violent burning orange, glinting off the alchemy table so kindly shoved into one corner, green and amber dazzling in the gloom, cool air swirling around his feet. __This __is why he __hates __camping. No privacy nor respect for one's personal space and time, how ridiculous and utterly depraved, what he'd give to be in more polite company. The glow of the early sunrise gleams off the newcomer's gilded moonstone armour, a resplendent sight usually but now just blinding to the groggy healer, he calls himself lucky he hasn't got several lined up all suffering from various ailments, Altmer aren't suited to the cold. Myrimae rolls his eyes as he turns to shuffle his chilly fingers into his gloves lest this damned weather kill them off with frostbite while his visitor stands dumbly in the doorway doing a rather apt impression of the sun, copper hair almost burning like a flame. __Clearly __they know naught of manners, even if this isn't a formal setting it'd be nice to see if people could show some common decency. At the very least he could of __asked __before simply inviting himself inside with little ceremony! When the soldier doesn't move or speak his mind, Myrimae just sighs, a drawn out hiss of ongoing suffering, and turns back to the guest, a small frown twisting his youthful features. He does not need this, not so early in the damned morning and not after what he's just had to sit through with Aetherian! People do choose the __damnedest __times to trouble him with such trivial problems, why can't this sorry excuse of leftover supper do this later, at night, when they've concluded their business with the Ambassador?

"Do you need something Voriel or are you simply here to detain me from doing any real work today?" He spits his words with a sarcastic tone, blue eyes giving the best glare he can manage. This pest better not be here for a potion, they have only a scarce few left, not that any of their swordsmen use magicka potions, and if he thinks Myrimae is going to take the time to make more then he's sorely mistaken, the healer has not a thing to craft more with on hand, restocking is one of his jobs for today.

"Oh you __wound __me! Who says I'm after something, hmm? Can't I just come on by for idle chit chat?" Myrimae just sends him a glare, "Fine, I suppose there is something I uh… now don't toss anything at me I know I'm armoured but you have good aim and you'll get me right in the face if you do…"

"Hurry up, some of us have an actual job to do today."

"Yes, right. Well I don't suppose you have a potion spare, I know I know, we're really low but, you see, I've had this cough and-"

Myrimae just sighs and shakes his head, "You know we're out, save for magicka potions, you asked the same thing yesterday and my answer is still the same; no."

A cocky grin slides onto the visitors face, a sure sign that the redhead is up to mischief, "Then perhaps, if you'd be so kind, you could practice your spells on me and use those __lovely __hands, hmm?"

Ugh, is this oaf seriously trying to flirt with him, after everything he's done? And that smirk, that stupid smirk! Just because it's the one he uses to charm just about anyone into doing whatever he wants it does not mean it's going to work on him, oh no, not this time, he is still very much annoyed with a one Yvonril Voriel. Myrimae is not playing this game today, there's far too much to do, so Yvon can just go find another to work his special kind of magic on, not that it ever works on him in the first place. The poor thing sounds almost hopeful as well, his pleading golden eyes trying to evoke sympathy from the other mer in front of him evoking the image of a small puppy pleading for a treat. It won't work, not after what he's __done. __While he's been softened up, his days as a killer put to rest and he's grown a touch sympathetic, especially to the ailing, Myrimae was not tolerant with __Yvonril __with his honeyed words and wandering hands, especially the wandering hands. His laid back attitude only causes trouble for anyone who gets close, Aetherian despises him with a fiery passion and has far more to say about the soldier than he has to say about Lady Elenwen. And he has a __lot __to say about her. While, yes, he does agree with some of the insults his brother spews on occasion, such as the man fore him being a lazy slob who barely remembers to keep himself well groomed, there are things, that he daren't repeat, Myrimae __fully __disagrees with. If only he was actually taking his job seriously for once, he may actually show mercy upon the poor soul but, __no __, of course out of all the days for him to be playing his little games it had to be today. Perhaps, if this were any other day, he'd play along, teasing and laughing with Yvonril, perhaps even letting him off the hook. But now he was just an irritating nuisance. He knows he's faking this illness, it's plain as day, in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he simply over indulged while round the fire with the scouts last night and is now nursing a rather acute headache. Those wood elves and cats sure now how to get a man wretchedly drunk, he'll never understand the appeal in that foul swill.

"I'm sorry but that'll have to be a hard no for me. You're not truly ill, I can tell. You're just doing this to annoy me, aren't you?"

"Perhaps… or maybe I'm after a little something else, other than your healing arts of course."

Clearly the man is simply looking for an outlet for his boredom and just so happened to stumble upon his fellow's dwelling, deciding then and there to make a bother of himself. And, well, if Myrimae is being honest with himself the distraction is appreciated, despite his previous conversation with his brother those nightmares, twisted and vile, will haunt his day. No matter, Yvonril will be getting no potions, no restoration spells, no mercy and certainly none of what he's actually come for. If that wretched heathen even thinks for one second he can work his __charms __on him then, well, he is in for quite a surprise. There is absolutely nothing charming about the rugged, __handsome __and incredibly flattering Yvonril, not one bit! Charm? Ha, hilarious! Everyone knows he's a rather charmless sod who does not understand, in the slightest, that perhaps the first words people don't want to hear in the morning when someone bursts into their tent is ' __Hey want to taste the wine I drank last night __?'. Ugh, he's used __that __one before, how utterly graceless, and idiotic, like something like that is going to woo anybody, especially his fine self! No eloquence at all! If Yvonril truly wishes to woo Myrimae he'd know to write him sappy poetry, reciting romantic sonnets in the warm breeze of an Alinor sunset. He'd bring him flowers to cheer up his dismal little office, candies for them to share as they count the stars together, the whole works! Candlelight dinner with an ocean view, warm summer wind caressing the scene, hands held oh so tenderly as they stare into one another's eyes with adoration. Whispered confessions of love and- No! No he's not getting caught up in some flight of fancy today, too much to do, busy busy busy! Is it honestly too much to ask for a little bit of romance though? But Yvonril just smirks, basking in the golden sunlight, looking like a flickering flame. Those golden eyes roam over the dim interior of the tent and settle on the mage who turns to take stock of his supplies, trying to ignore the attention. But he just keeps staring as if he can see those tender thoughts written plain as words on paper, drinking them up like a fine wine. Myrimae scowls. Who is he to think that he could possibly know that he thinks of kissing him under the moonlight, that he dreams of dancing with him under the stars? Perhaps the person who managed to worm his way into his heart, even if he is utterly without what he's looking for in a lover but, alas, he will have to address the situation eventually.

"Are you just going to stand there like a imbecile or are you coming in? Stay there long enough and you'll be answering to Aeth or the general." His tone is snappish but if he were truly angry he'd of sent Yvon away by now and they both know it.

The soldier simply shrugs, dropping the flaps of the tent casting the scene into darkness, the gloom a welcome change, "Your brother despises me enough without him catching me in here and I'm fairly certain I can handle the general. I'll just report him to mother and she'll be here in no time to scold him for being mean to his little baby brother."

" __Please __don't antagonise either of them today, Aetherian's already been fretting over me again and I've seen the general angry, I'd rather dance nude in a pit full of angry mudcrabs than get on his bad side." He shudders at the thought, got enough trauma on his plate to manage without adding getting nipped onto the list.

"Can I pay to see that? I'd pay to see that… well at least you're joking with me now, that's a good sign at least?" And there's that hopeful tone again and the watery pleading eyes.

"I'm still angry with you."

Yvonril groans in displeasure, much like a child might when their mother has told them no for the umpteenth time, " __Mae __, tell me, what I can do to make this right? I've apologised, I cleaned up the mess, I fixed and replaced everything I broke and I am truly sorry. I know I shouldn't of done it in the first place and I should of remembered our meeting and I know I left you waiting in the snow for hours and I know I'm useless at this whole romance thing but I'm trying. I uh… when we reach the next settlement I'll treat you to something at the local tavern? I know Nord cooking isn't quite up to your level of fancy but…" He sighs in frustration, running a hand through coppery locks, "I really want to make __us __work."

"You always know how to convince me, don't you?"

"Is that a yes then?" And there's that cheeky smile again, lighting up those rugged features with the warmth of high summer.

Myrimae just sighs, "It's a yes, you can treat me to a sub par home cooked meal some poor tavern owner threw together but, and I'm saying this at the risk of sounding like a lovestruck fool right now, as long as you're with me I'll enjoy whatever it is we do."

"Oh be still my quaking heart!" Yvonril cries with dramatic flair, head tossed back and arm raised to his brow as if he's about to keel over like a frail maiden, "My dearest beloved does have a soft caramel centre after all, I was beginning to think that I'd have to kiss my way through that shell of yours."

It's too early, much too early, for a passionate tryst, and far too public, as if that ever stalled Yvonril's advances or deterred them both from plotting secret saccharine meetings under starlight once the sun went to it's rest neath the horizon, the darkness becoming an easy shroud to hide in. That is not to say that there have not been mornings they've tentatively spent tangled in bed, trying to keep everything hushed for fear of being caught in the act and heavens has that happened more than a few times. But here, surrounded by soldiers and robes alike, having been called halfway across the continent to the frozen peaks, is more daring and more troublesome than he believes he can deal with. Perhaps, if he were more foolishly brave he'd happily be a little adventurous. He is neither brave nor foolish and knows that even pondering on such a venture is a dangerous thing but he is is weak, and Yvonril is very convincing when he pleases, Myrimae can easily see himself giving in. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying, sending his heart into a frantic flutter. What chaos would ensue if they were careless? How would they escape scrutiny since, after all, Yvonril is not the most stealthy of characters, clunking around in his armour and being a general nuisance. Well, there was that __one __time he had to clamber out of Myrimae's window when his dear mother had burst into his rooms in an excited flurry to announce her most beloved cherry tree had bloomed overnight and he just had to come see just how lovely it looked against the ponds in the light of dawn. He remembers the scene with fondness, memories tinted by pale humour, a small smile gracing his face when he looks back on how he dove to obstruct her view of the window trailing silken bedsheets behind him just so the redhead could make a speedy exit down the trellis and into the woodland. Poor mother would've dropped dead on the spot if she'd caught even a glimpse of them laid up together, basking in the warmth of late spring sunshine. Once again Mae reminds himself this is what he chose for himself, that this slowly flourishing love, despite what those close minded fools back home think of the matter, is something worth fighting for. Something worth his time and care, and he surely does have a lot of time on his hands now he's been forcefully retired from his previous line of work. Their people, overall, aren't quite fond of partnerships that cannot produce valuable offspring and Mae knows __that's __never going to happen between them, not if he lives for a thousand years. It's simply __impossible __, don't need to be a healer to know that, by the Eight you don't even need to be clever to know it. Yvonril seems oblivious to Myrimae's ponderings, simply making himself at home leaning against one of the supports, a look of boredom on his face like one may wear a crown as he inspects his gloves for dirt. They are so very lucky Aetherian is distracted with their travel preparations or this simple moment of nothing would become a moment of disaster very quickly. The soldier continues picking at a smear of mud, unconcerned.

"So…"

"So?"

Yvonril gestures with his head to the outside world, "What has the good lord been fretting over this time? You trip on your robe or something?"

"No. It was…" He sighs shaking his head, leaning back against the clunky wooden table one of the cats has been forced to drag up the side of the mountain, poor thing, "It was another nightmare."

"Hmm, I thought you looked like you didn't get much rest but I didn't want to say anything. You can be… __difficult __." Before Mae can toss the closest item at him he quickly adds, "I mean I know it troubles you and I knew you were still annoyed with me so I decided not to bring it up and well, I saw Aeth leave and he always has that sort of expression on his face like-"

"Shh love, your rambling is rather unbecoming of such a finely bred mer such as yourself." Mae leaves his perch and gently wraps his arms around the rigid metal of Yvonril's armour in a light hug, his head resting on his lover's shoulder, "I understand that it's difficult for everyone to find where they stand with this whole ordeal, I struggle with it myself, but I don't want you to blame yourself for any of this. You're the last person I want to hurt."

A moment passes, the wind's distant howl and sounds of the camp the only sounds filling the tent until Yvonril lets out a weary sigh, his own arms pulling Myrimae as close as he can, moonstone and leather cold through the back of his robes, stinging like fire. An unanswered question lingers in the air but it gets brushed aside as if it needed to be voiced to begin with. Yvonril asks the question each time they speak, it's as familiar as his craft, and Myrimae always answers in the same manner, repeating it endlessly. It does not frustrate him as much as Aetherian's questions for his heart is open and tender, gently loved by the one who saved him from that chaos. Apparently, according to the healers, Yvonril had been one of the few to discover Myrimae in the aftermath, along with his brother and a few other select members of the Dominion, and had been the one to drag his limp bloodied form to the healers, kicking down their doors with the force of a gale. His wounds, Myrimae remembers his tutor saying, were the worst she'd ever seen and she was on the battlefield during the Great War. One whole big mess, Yvon had once called it. He takes no offence, he knows it troubles him more than he lets on. How many times has he caught him, head in hands, silent weeping shaking him to the core because, by the Divines, how could he possibly forget the sight of the one he loves bloodied and on the fringe of death? Many times. __Too many __times. Yvonril is strong so weeping like that? It makes him stronger, shows that he cares deeply, shows how much he loves and cherishes people he is close to, Myrimae admires him. But another question lingers, in fact, it's troubled the mage for quite some time, and he's not certain he wishes for it to be answered. How bad was I? My injuries, how terrible were they?

"Care to tell me more about this dream then? If you share the burden it'll feel all the lighter and I'll rest easier knowing that your shoulders no longer bear the full weight of it."

Myrimae sighs backing away from the embrace, running his hands through his already messy brown locks. He wants to know it all, doesn't he? Every scrap, every little fleeting thought that flickers in the gloom, dancing amongst the shards his mind has become. Picking apart the details can be difficult, especially when he doesn't know what's real and what is simply a figment of his trauma, manifesting in such a way that it exacerbates the already raw and weeping wound. He turns to his work, a line of blue potions sitting neatly on the table ready to be tossed into a satchel and strapped to the nearest beast of burden. An easy job. They've time to talk, at least for a short while, and he has time now to collect his jumbled thoughts, to pick them apart like tangled threads and examine them all, one by one. What is truth, what is dream, what hurts and what can he sweep to the side, easily ignored and forgotten. So in a small voice, he recounts the same terrible tale he tells each time he dreams, adding the necessary new embellishments to the ever growing nightmare. Like a beast feeding itself it swells, but it is always hungry and demands more and more sacrifices each time, spewing out a slew of vile visions. How much more will it consume before Myrimae finds himself but a husk, wandering through his day to day as a simple wisp of what he once was? He continues recalling his nightmare, faced away from his lover, eyes staring into the gloom but not truly seeing. The dismembered bodies are new, he thinks, they could have been bones last time, bleached hands reaching for the altar through the grime as if beseeching some unknown deity for mercy they did not receive but he's not overly sure, he doesn't dwell on such thoughts if he can help candles are new for sure though, last time it had been those glowing blue crystals found lighting the Ayleid ruins they'd seen throughout Cyrodiil, he doesn't know their name. Aetherian had handed him one, several weeks back, that a scout had plucked from a nearby ruin and he'd gazed in wonder at its beauty, marveled at its craft. Little did he know that soon that eerie blue glow would haunt his darkest hours. Last time the ringleader had been a wraith, this time it was his dead uncle. Once he'd seen his own face, staring down, cruel smile fitting oddly on his face yet looking right at home, as if someone had stripped away all his false personas and laid him bare, forcing him to see the cruel pitiful creature he was within.

It was simply trauma, from the accident of course, that was causing these nightmares. He's seen it himself in others, back when he was simply masquerading as a healer, and now that he's taken up the role officially he sees it all the time. Nightmares and trauma go hand in hand, those suffering reliving the moments that brought them to ruin, but __just __simple trauma doesn't make you cry yourself back to sleep the way he does. It can push you to crawl into your sister's bed, seeking her gentle voice to croon lullabies til' dawn colours the sky to the east but it does not destroy your relationship with her over a small disagreement, not does it tear your family apart in the way it has his. He had been helping rehabilitate soldiers from the Great War, had been speaking with them and letting them find in him a confidant. He's sat by many bedsides, listening to the soldiers recount what it'd been like out there on the battlefields, how the blood soaked the ground, how their friends, brothers and sisters in arms, laid cold at their feet. He never tells them he's been there too, only that he understands. It's probably best he can't remember his own trauma for living with the knowledge of it is a weight he can't imagine he can carry, alone or with help. His own recounting reaches its climax, Myrimae shudders as he remembers the all too real pain of that blade piercing though his very core, both white hot and cold as winter's breath all at once. He can feel it flickering, deep down in his soul for a moment, a soft sting rising up, hands shaking, voice breaking and then, all of a sudden, he's cut off, held close to a metal chest as his ragged breathing fills the morning air.

"Mae stop, stop. That's enough, __please __."

And he's shaking too. Head to toe, from the fingertips that rest on Myrimae's back to his quivering cheek pressed into brown hair. And he's crying, golden eyes closed, desperately clinging on to his strong demeanour that slowly slips from his grasp like sickly sweet honey. He'd been there, of course he had, silly little Myrimae, the healers had said as much. Flickering memories trickle through the clouds of panic and worry, like fat raindrops, each splash a word recalled from his nightmare. Burning hands holding him close, desperate pleas for help, everything felt so real, and by the Divines he's beginning to think it may just of been so. No. No it can't be real, he tells himself, clinging on tighter, curling into the embrace, there's just no way. It was an accident, a foolish mistake that's dragged him into even more trouble. It was Yvonril who cradled his dying body in the aftermath of it all, kissing away bloodied tears, whispering broken prayers. He was the one who screamed, who begged for his salvation in that nightmare, that darkness even trying to sour their love. __Of course __he wasn't going to take this whole thing well, of course he'd suffer as well, how naive he has been to think otherwise. What if, gods forbid, what if __Yvonril __suffered with terrible nightmares too? The soldier always puts up a strong front, trying to protect everyone because it's his __job __never speaking about what goes on up there, just gentle and encouraging Myrimae to speak __his __mind, as if his pains are somehow more profound and worthy of note __. __It's his duty to fight, to be strong, to never waver but soldiers feel too, people scarce think of that, scarce think that they're little more than metal and a sword. But Myrimae knows, his arms hugging him back, as tightly as he possibly can, clinging on like he's lost at sea, tossed around by a raging tempest. Yvonril always tries to be strong for him, tries to make him feel better, well that just won't do! Myrimae is a healer, and it's his job to wipe away the hurt.

"It's over now, it's done. Whatever happened, happened, we can't change the past, we can't stop it. All we can do is go forward and try to heal." Gentle, encouraging, his 'healer's voice' as some have taken to calling it, so used to hearing him croon at the ailing.

"It's getting __worse __." The reply is muffled, spoken into his hair rather than to his face, Myrimae simply sighs, he can't deny the truth.

"Often, and yes I have observed this myself, often things do get worse before true healing can take place. Perhaps I will spiral down to rock bottom and must find my way back up. Bones often must be broken again to heal properly. The road to recovery is an uphill battle in the rain, with no shoes on in the middle of winter and it's muddy. It's hard, you'll fall more than once but do you lay there, in the dirt, in the cold, in the storm? Or do you drag yourself back up and keep going, knowing that you're going to have to do that countless times?" A deep breath, and he pulls away, looking at a still teary eyed Yvonril who, for the most part, is trying to compose himself, "I am willing to fall, willing to slip and perhaps even slide all the way back to the beginning of my climb. Maybe I'll end laid up again, wrapped in bedsheets like an ailing elder but I know that in the end it'll be worth it. I'm just sorry you have to suffer too."

Silence. Then all of a sudden, Yvonril begins to laugh, staring as a small chuckle but quickly dissolving into breathless wheezing.

"You always know the exact right thing to say." His words barely make it from his mouth before he breaks down into another fit of laughter, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm howling like a drunkard."

"You __are __a drunkard."

"By the Eight I love you."

Myrimae rolls his eyes, "Yvon I'm beginning to worry for you you know…"

Hand cup the healer's cheeks, his vision filled with a Cheshire grin, the sudden swap from sullen to joyous like a slap in the face. Erratic mood changes are just a part of Yvon's charm he supposes.

" __I love you __."

"I know, I know."

"I love you, I love you, I love you, I-"

"You're not going to stop until I say it back, are you?"

A shake of the head, "Nope, and I can keep at it all day!"

Myrimae smiles, his lover's mirth infectious, "Very well, sir Voriel, I love you too."

And for a moment, he gives up on worry, for it is meaningless. He lets his fears, his doubts and all the pain that lingers melt away as dawn spills over the horizon, bleeding across the sky like a slit throat. For a moment, everything is right in the world, for a moment they can live in ignorance of the horrors that wait in the shadows. Like children they cling onto innocence despite throwing it to the wolves years ago and decide to thrive without.


	2. Chapter 2

Like a whip the wintry breeze lashes at the assembled entourage with all the fury of a scorned lover eliciting a chorus of displeased grumbles from the soldiers and soft whinnies from the troubled horses. Myrimae pulls his thick woolen cloak closer around his form with a huff, shivering as the wind claws at him again pelting his face with kisses of knife sharp cold despite his fur-trimmed hood and despite all of his efforts to keep warm the tempest is content to howl onwards, it's shrill screams almost like teasing laughter. Nobody could have predicted a storm on such a fair and clear morning but a storm they had, slowing their trek into the sheltered woodlands waiting below, their boughs like quaking arms outstretched for an embrace. Auri-El curse this wretched mountain and the fools who decided to camp upon it for there can be no greater pain than being cold. The trek down was already predicted to take hours on the slippery stony path at the absolute least even without an oncoming blizzard nipping at their heels. How annoying! The great sheer cliffs stand like silent sentinels on either side of the pass, their tops white with freshly fallen snow and they do naught to shelter them only look on, judgemental and distant, scorning their slow passage. They are strangers in this land, unwelcome and ill equipped to tackle the native weather and even the land itself knows of this. One misplaced step, one careless move and they'll all tumble down the mountain into the waiting jaws of the sharp pines at the pass' mouth waiting like verdant fangs, hungry and darkened by ephemeral shadows. It helps his boredom to think of the land as if living and capable of thought rather than just large and exceedingly dull, rocks and the occasional dismal little tree the only decoration that adorns an otherwise bleak landscape. Another gust of furious wind slaps the Altmer from the side, his horse swaying from the force an unhappy neigh leaving the old nag at the same time a pained hiss leaves him. Blasted Skyrim and blasted snow and blasted storm! Oh what he'd do to crawl back into bed, a __proper __bed not some threadbare roll laid upon hard ground, and sleep for the rest of the day in a cocoon of warmth with a raging fire but feet away. Myrimae is not made for the winter, his heart is summer warm and scented like the cherry blossoms of spring, he can barely handle a chilled drink in hand and here he is, dragging himself through some icy mountain pass in the waning days of autumn.

A glance to the side, a break in this abysmal boredom and brooding. Aetherian rides at his side black cloaks and long silvery hair billowing in the wind, the older mer wearing splashes of snow and ice like medals of honor a perfectly neutral mask blessing his fair features. He has always been the coldest one in their family, pale skin the colour of a watery winter sunrise and chartreuse eyes sharp as ice, this wintery scene suits him well. Bastard has the sheer audacity to look regal next to the rest of them, focus not wavering from the road even as the storm reaches a fervent pitch, the general's voice carrying over the howl of the fitful wind, begging for a retreat. But Aetherian outranks him, they both know it, silencing the man with a glare that could kill nations if he so desired. There would be no retreat, no return, the path they've left behind will be far too treacherous, too troublesome to navigate, they will not abandon their cause so far into their journey. Press on, he urges, they will break through the treeline soon and then there shall be a reprieve from the blizzard, the boughs of the forest shielding them from the worst of the pelting snow. His words carry a promise of rest and Myrimae does hope that's the case, dearly so because at this rate half the foot soldiers will have frostbite or the shakes and he'll be tending to their fevers all night rather than cashing in on Yvonril's promise of a home cooked dinner and an early retire to bed __together __. Not that he's going to make that public knowledge of course, not if he doesn't want to be tending to Yvonril's wounds and his own after the inevitable backlash. He understands, of course, both of them hail from wealthy families with powerful and prestigious bloodlines, thus it's important that both of them settle down with pretty ladies from equally as important families and have plenty of little children who they can raise to do the same. Curses upon his ancestor for bedding some royal twit and bearing a bastard into the world because apparently that's their claim to their noble rank! Myrimae does not think sleeping with another person's husband and having his child is something to be bragging about and he's more than certain his ancestor would not think so either. Nether-the-less that was what his father raised him to be proud of so that is what he must think about it all. The howling wind grows quiet as they dip below the boughs of the waiting trees, an eerie darkness sweeping over the assembled as the twittering of birds whispers through the canopy. Aetherian raises a hand in silence, a call for them to stop, rest well earned. Myrimae practically sags in the saddle his disgruntled horse huffing.

"She will throw you off if you don't treat her right dear." A glance at his brother sat upon his noble looking steed makes Myrimae just roll his eyes at the older mer, as if he were having any problems with such a finely bred beast.

"You picked the worst possible nag for me out of all of them, I doubt this old lady could buck me off even if she wanted to. She should be plowing a field somewhere and I should be riding something more-"

" __Regal __? Befitting of those descending from royal stock? Well, my dear Myrimae, if you didn't wait for me to come collect you instead of meeting me for the debriefing and delaying us you wouldn't have to ride, oh what was it that dimwitted Nord called her…? Batty, Betty?" A dismissive wave of the hand, he obviously cares little, "It matters not, only that I gave you time to collect yourself and you took liberties with my kindness and patience holding us back and missing half the brief."

A scoff and a roll of the eyes, "I know what the mission is, Aetherian. We ride down a mountain, you meet with Elenwen and our general meets with the Imperial general and then we go on our merry way back to warmer weather in Cyrodiil after we stand there and watch a few Nords get their heads cut off."

"And this is why I was so __insistent __that you be on time for our briefing this morning. You'd be aware that we will __not __be returning to the Imperial City for quite some time. Months at the very least, perhaps a full year if strictly necessary! __Honestly __Myrimae you'd know this if you took your job more seriously!"

But Myrimae isn't listening, he's much too preoccupied burying his face in his hands and screaming silently, lamenting his own foolishness. A __year __? __Months __at the very least? May the Divines save him from this frozen wasteland of naught but storms and stone, where the forests sigh in the wind and everything is so dreary and harsh, and that's just the natives! A gust of wind claws at him, cold fingers probing for the weaknesses in his defence, their death-like chill creeping into his bones, blood turning to ice. Already, too soon, he craves to return to his post in the Imperial City, and he knows once he returns there he'll crave to return to Alinor, perhaps even drag his sorry state all the way back to Firsthold to cling to mother's skirts like he did when he was a babe. Oh how his heart yearns to return to that land of eternal summer, where the flowers always bloom and the sky is clear. No matter how damaged he is, no matter how large the fractures in his mind grow he'll always be able to find peace there, sweet drink in hand, feet propped up and ocean breeze gently kissing his face. It's so far away it feels like a fleeting dream, tinted rose and beyond his meager reach, so much so that some days he questions if that sense of peace was ever real to begin with. But he mustn't dwell on such things lest his imagination wander down the dark alleyways in his mind, curiosity finding all the little secrets he hides away like a maddened hoarder. Regardless of where he is in the world he is still sick but there's not much the gentle lap of the waves upon the shore and watery first dregs of sunlight that kiss away the night can't fix, it'll just take time and a lot of care. And he is not getting the care he desperately needs __here __. No, not here, being dragged along to work, not here where the people he's been made to entrust with his well being must focus their attention elsewhere on things deemed more important than the health of their agents. A breath, a breeze, a flurry of snowflakes flittering through the trees. It's all well, he tells himself, they'll be done with this mission within a couple of hours and, even if there is more work to be done, he'll be able to sit back and relax, at least for a little while, even if he's away from all his homely comforts. Yes, Myrimae decides, all will be well. Yvonril gives him a smile from the ground as he along with the other soldiers rub warmth back into their frozen fingers, Aetherian huffs as the general prattles on about some nonsense and everything feels as it should be. There is no need to be so upset and Aetherian is right he does dearly need to be more serious about his work, not that he'll return to his days of assassinations and spy work but if he doesn't start actually doing his job soon somebody is going to get hurt.

It's not long before the order to move out once more is called, their horses weary from the trek huffing as they urge them onwards even though the screaming winds have died down to gentle sighs and the snowflakes only flutter past in a silent dance nobody really wishes to move on from this scant comfort. Despite the chill and his running nose Myrimae begrudgingly admits that yes this snow covered woodland with it's sharp pines and bleak rocks is at least somewhat pretty, almost like a frosted cake with a powdering of sugar. Little colourful flowers peep through the layers of white, their tiny yet hardy blooms not perturbed by the foul weather just like the berry bushes that thrive by the side of the long cobbled road and the dank moss that clings on to the fallen boulders with admirable tenacity. Straight back he allows his cloaks to fall away, his own coating of frost to dispersing, a couple of strained sunbeams streaking through the high boughs of the trees, snow quickly fleeing from its gleaming presence. Today will be good, it will be better than a costly storm and a bloody execution and acting as an ear for any of their people who are troubled by watching heretic heads meet the dirt. Sooner than he thought the village gates loom into view, simple wood that has seen many a year of use and stone walls, rough and weathered mark the entrance to the quaint Nordic town. Beyond the walls blue eyes can spy the towers of the Imperial keep and the watchtower's red flags waving in the breeze, the Imperial dragon taking flight over the sleepy little village. And out front, waiting for them by the gates wearing a sneer with her own sorry looking contingent of High Mages and golden soldiers is Skyrim's very own Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen. He can almost feel Aetherian's own haughty glare of distaste down to the exact second he lays eyes on her. The two go way back, back to the Great War and then even before that, apparently apprenticing under the same wizard and spending years together as childhood friends. Myrimae knows not what happened to sour their relationship but he does know they were already drifting apart when he was still toddling around finding his feet and by the time he was old enough to understand what was happening they were at each other's throats. After the Great War whatever they'd shared was gone forever, but Myrimae can't help but feel that he had a hand in all of this. It matters little now, they're professionals and both value their careers along with the overall ideals the Dominion stands for and neither is willing to jeopardize decades of hard work over a petty falling out.

"Ambassador, a __pleasure __to see you again. I am so utterly __honoured __that you'd invite my goodself and my assembled dignitaries to this splendid land on such a… __lovely __day." He'd make a convincing case if not for the sharp look he sends the lady's way meeting her own sneer head on.

"Ah, Inquisitor Syellan I was not aware that you would be accompanied by the general," A nod in his direction and one in response but then her intense gaze settles on Myrimae, the sudden feeling of being scrutinised settling around him heavy as his sodden cloak, "Nor was I aware of your… __brother. __A pleasure to see you again." It's as if she thinks he can't taste the lies rolling from her tongue.

"The general's business is not with the Thalmor but with the Legion and is in his own interests, General Voriel is simply accompanying us for ease. And, for your consideration Ambassador, my brother goes where I go regardless of his use to us." Aetherian's reply is swift and sharp, snappish even, his emerald gaze daring Elenwen to speak further on the matter, when she removes her focus from him and instead returns it to the matter at hand the mer's quick anger dissipates and he continues in a much more cheery tone, "Now we can stand here all day and discuss whom should and should not be attending this fiasco or you can most kindly escort us inside and we'll get this all over with."

A nod to the Imperial guards and the gates swing open with a weary creak, their old hinges protesting under the strain, Myrimae wonders how the villagers even manage to leave or return to the village with such a sad broken thing as their defenses. The village bleeds into existence as he urges his horse onwards, filing his brothers words away to hurl at him later in what will most likely be a blazing row. A gentle waft of smoke curls around them, the scent of cooking heavy in the air, the inn preparing for what they expect to be a rush of activity after the execution. How barbaric! For such a quaint village with rather charming little thatched collages and youths playing in the dirt where scruffy half dead mountain flowers bloom the populace sure is eager to whet their lips with fresh blood. Soon the cobbles will be dirtied with the stain of heretic filth, it'll take months for the Imperials to get their servants to scrub them clean not that they're overly pristine at the moment sullied by dirt of all kinds. Ah __Imperials __, the Legion is full of bastards who care for nothing but the sound of coin in their purses, no honour, no discipline at all! They'll enforce the Concordant if it means they'll get paid well but beyond that they care little for this holy war. And it is holy. Myrimae has been told that it is so and he finds no reason to question those above him, it is not his place to do so. But the Empire is always at odds with itself, the races of men snapping at one another like mongrel dogs fighting over the last bone of a carcass already picked clean, their betters looking on from the metaphorical dinner table with both mirth and distaste in equal parts. And this foolish civil war is one of these carcasses. General against rebel, one man calling himself king and the other denying his claim. __Idiots __. And speaking of them there sits the general upon his steed, the aging man barely even acknowledging their presence merely speaking in hushed tones with the ambassador, pausing but a moment to greet their own general. Aetherian wears an open expression of displeasure at being so easily brushed to the side, it's almost satisfying to see. Myrimae smirks to himself, serves him right for once.

A barbed insult lingers in his mouth, bitter and sharp but Myrimae finds it interrupted by a parade of clattering hooves as several rickety looking horse drawn carts roll into town carrying a collection of men and women, all streaked with dirt and blood and, despite their impending deaths, still wearing glares bearing the sharp fury of a summer storm, their hate clear and oozing. One by one the carts pass on creaking wheels, one, two, three… five in total, the last one carrying the rebel leader himself, Ulfric Stormcloak, bound and gagged like fat game waiting for the hunter's blade to steal away his miserable life. A wry smile crosses his face watching them meander forward to greet their ends. How satisfying it is to see such a troublesome fool captured so easily and so quickly before any real lasting damage could be done, he can't even begin to imagine how difficult the clean up efforts would be if they'd allowed this man to continue to run rampant like a feral hound. He's ruffled quite a few feathers including Aetherian's and while it has been rather satisfying to see the Legion in such a panic over it all it's high time it ended, at least in Myrimae's humble opinion. If the stories are true, and he very much doubts that they are, Ulfric marched into the Blue Palace in Solitude without invite or letter preceding him and tore the High King apart with his voice alone, right in front of the whole court including the poor thing's little wife. Unprovoked, just in and out. One dead man later and he's starting a war, proclaiming a false god as true while spitting in the face of all mer everywhere, calling more close-minded bigots to his banner like wasps to sweet honey wine and, in response to such, spurring the Empire to call more of their own to deal with the apparent ' __threat __'. It's already a hopeless mess, thank the Eight that he doesn't have to deal with it on a more personal level. Blue eyes roam over the rebel's rugged features. Such a shame he's the enemy he is rather handsome in his own way. Not that any of them meet his exceptionally high standards after all they're just small a selection of Nords and one singular Dunmer tossed into rotting wooden carts. Wait. His heart jumps and Mryimae swerves his stare on to the singular mer sat amongst the men. An oddity. Out of place. They feel __wrong __. Pale ashen skin, leaning back without a care in the world eyes closed, hair as white as the snow on the peaks above spilling around their singular elf doesn't care. Doesn't give a damn that their head is about to meet dirt, doesn't give a damn that everyone around them despise anything that isn't a Nord, especially those born with pointed ears. It's arrogance, pure simple arrogance.

For a moment he simply stares, this other person of mer blood a curiosity despite the twisting feeling in his guts, the hammering of his heart. It feels wrong to see them there, squashed up against three large Nordic brutes and bound like a common thug. Wrong wrong wrong. And Myrimae doesn't know why. Why does it feel so bad to see them there, this stranger he's never met before? Is it because he can't believe that any mer, despite their heritage, could join the __Stormcloaks __, a foolish rebel cause cemented in the beliefs of men whose rallying cry supports the claims of a false god. Shouldn't a __Dunmer __know better than that? Isn't the destruction of their homeland a testament to how mortal lips should never dare speak as if divine? But he doesn't know much about that, he's only read the books, not lived it and it's not his story to tell. Myrimae stares, and then, suddenly, the other stares back. Eyes a vivid purple, not red like they should be like any other of his kind, gazing back sleepily as if they just woke up from a long slumber. The Dunmer sits up straight as if shocked, alert and wild, and still staring. Like they've been hit with a sparks spell. It's as if they're connected by invisible chains, the weight too heavy to ignore but nobody else, not a single person in this whole world, can see their link except them. And Myrimae is shaking. Shaking atop his old nag even as Aetherian guides the beast closer to his own, his voice calm yet sounding as if it comes from a great distance as he explains with great that sometimes his dear brother does this, that he is still in the process of healing and it will not affect his duties. Competent, is a word he tosses to the ambassador as if it holds weight. Competent but distracted, this is, after all, his first major mission after the accident and, well, his services are not presently required. But Myrimae barely hears him over the pounding of his heartbeat that thunders in his head. The carts have stopped, the prisoners being unloaded like cargo, their names called out before they're lined up neatly ready for the headsman's axe. One man, a blubbering fool covered in dirt and bruises breaks from the group refusing to be shephered towards his doom but only meets his end in the dirt, arrows sticking out of his flesh like a macabre pincushion. He looks away quickly, back to where a Legionnaire addresses the strange elf. Still unconcerned, almost leisurely the Dunmer joins the hoard.

Aetherian's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, "Mae darling, Mae you don't have to watch this, why don't you go rest inside the Inn. I'll join yo-"

"No." The force of his conviction surprises them both, neither Altmer even noticing the swish of the axe or the thud of a head dropping to the crate.

"Next... get rid of that Dark Elf!"

Time suddenly feels slow as if everyone is wading through the depths of the sea, the weight and pressure slowing their limbs and even as he watches before his very eyes as the Imperials lay down the strange elf on the soiled block, blood covering the side of their face that meets the stone his insides twist with wrongness. Something cuts through the murk, clear as a scream ravaging through a silent night, clean as a blade parting flesh. A roll of thunder to those who turn a deaf ear out of fear and ignorance but Myrimae knows it for what it is; a rumbling roar of rage, of murderous intent. His heart pounds in his chest, mouth dry he tries to call out for them to stop, for that axe to be lowered not to neck but to the side, to let this mystery person live. But those screams come again, the sky churns above, clouds parting and there! Darting through the grey expanse, black as moonless midnight, a shadow crosses the sun's weak rays. A ripple of unbridled horror passes through the crowd, their gasps and shouts not enough to deter the headsman for his only focus is bloodshed even as another terrible roar sunders the uneasy tension. The horses whinny and fret, his own horse nervously swaying as a rush of wind blasts the village, ratting the gates like how a prisoner shakes their cell doors for a freedom that will never come. Aetherian reaches over to him, hand a burning pressure on his shaking hand, fingers like shackles. __Something __wants in. And it is __angry __. A crash and the terror arrives, a great beast with a maw of teeth the length of swords and eyes so red they set the late autumn skies and earth ablaze with their malice alone. The horse bucks in a wild panic throwing him from it's back to the cold ground below pain exploding in his left shoulder when he makes impact with the dirt but there is little time to think, little time to heal himself when that… that __thing __stands above them all like an eager predator ready for the kill. Slowly he stands, body throbbing like a giant bruise, shaking from the tips of his ears to his toes, from shock or from fear he can't say for certain but as the beast shows its fangs once again a great pressure builds with a rumble of thunder everything a whisper away from chaos. They wait with baited breath, watching. And then it speaks. To the skies it howls out a wretched wail that sounds like a thousand storms crashing down upon the village, a great wind lashing out in a ceaseless fury that shakes the cobbles free from the dirt. Another crash of thunderous might and Myrimae finds himself back on the ground, curled into a ball in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from debris.

He lays there a while, listening to the rumble of buildings collapse and the terrible screams of those around him as their already short lives are ended in a snap. He dares to peek, one eye then the other. Fire and smoke are all that surround him, a great veil of disaster bore from a maw of razor teeth cloaks the village in a haze of black and grey, flame leaping from one crude wooden cottage to the next, what were once people's homes now serving as kindling. The great beast perches on the high tower, weathered stone crumbling neath its scythe like talons as it unleashes only devastation, that great maw speaking words Myrimae has never heard before, if one can call the ear splitting sound that pours forth words. __Words __. From a __beast __. He's sure they're words, it sounds like speaking if he cares to listen more closely. It's more like __shouting, __rage bringing forth the heat of fell flames with a breath and tearing the earth asunder in the next. Everything is aflame. The rubble, the trees, people of all banners and even the sky is burning. It is wreathed in orange, like a sunset and the only thing Myrimae can see beyond the layers of smoke and churning oppressive grey clouds. By the Divines, __the sky is burning __! Fire rains down upon the accursed world like thousands of bolts of lightning, thunderous crashes filling the air like a never ending storm of stone and embers. It's too loud, his poor sensitive ears are ringing, his head pounding, and gods his shoulder feels like someone has driven a knife right into the joint! Hurts. It hurts so much but he is rooted to the spot, fear crushing his heart, stealing his breath as surely as the smoke does. And the __screams __. Oh __Divines __the screams! People; civilians, Imperials, Stormcloaks and Thalmor alike are falling to the ground in sad bloodied heaps, their shouts of terror cut short by that __thing __. They're like toys! Discarded broken things, no longer needed, no longer wanted and simply left in the dirt to gather dust. Some of them he knows by name, may whatever force watches them all shield his brother and lover, may they be allowed to escape this, even if he cannot follow. But he can't move. He should be helping! He should be healing people, aiding the wounded as is his job but he __can't __. That great beast, with scales as black as moonless midnight, stares at him with those eyes so red they hurt. For a moment he's back there, in that terrible dream where the visions torment him like a sweet game, where blood soaks the floor and crawls up his nostrils suffocating the life from his failing form. All Myrimae can do is stare back at the monster, captivated. Smoke catches in his lungs, burns his eyes, tears dripping down dirty cheeks but he can't look away. It's like he's been suspended in time, splayed on the ground from where his horse threw him when it bolted. A whisper. A name.

__Dragon.__

Someone had called it a Dragon, like from one of those Nord myths he forced himself to pour over before the trek, the study well worth it it seems. It's more terrible than he could possibly imagine even after committing the little information he gleaned from those countless dusty old tomes to memory. It's teeth drip crimson as if it had just feasted upon living flesh, it's breath as hot as the flames around them and putrid, stinking like an infected wound. Not even his own twisted broken mind could imagine a monster so terrible, so wicked, not even in his nightmares where he dreams of death could such a being dance. It's __evil __, without any shadow of a doubt. This ancient beast of legend reeks of sin, of horrors committed in days long lost to the world, so old that nobody remembers them except in old tales told around the fire on a cold wintery night. It perches atop the watchtower like a little songbird might a tree branch surveying the wake of its destruction with what Myrimae can only describe as __pride __. Can… can it feel? Does this __thing __have a glimmer of intelligence in it's dark scaled body? Thoughts of its own? If it does, if it truly does, then it __chose __this. It chose to awaken from its slumber and take flight upon great wings that blot of the sun just to kill them all, one by one, like farmers culling their herds of the weak. Myrimae hears the distant rumble of thunder again and dares to stumble up onto unsteady feet. The dragon raises its head, horns grazing the clouds and like a songbird the dragon sings. Not gentle melodies that calm the soul, inviting an image of the lady Kynareth whispering to all of nature, oh __no __this is a requiem, a song for a mournful funeral, both terrible and grand. From the few moments Mae has laid on the cobbled street he has learnt that when the beast raises its head all that spews from that maw is more death. Blood fills the streets of Helgen like rain water, running in rivlets between the cobbles while bodies lay crumpled on the cold ground, ashes beginning to entomb their corpses in sheets of grey. Myrimae can't move, can't feel, can't even think straight. Frantically, he looks around, trying to see if there's anyone yet lingering in the smoke, anyone he can call out to. He's not the only one transfixed it seems, the dragon has another captive soul in it's claws. A single prisoner remains, eyes facing the sky, almost challenging the dragon with their gaze alone, long white hair billowing in the wind. It's… it's __that __one. The one who stared him down as they passed in the wagons, the single mer in a sea of men.

The dragon opens its jaws wide, preparing for what is to come. It screams to the heavens, long and furious, the sky beginning to churn faster and faster, a great whirlpool of grey clouds wheeling above, trying to suck them all up into the vortex. Myrimae clings to whatever he can certain he's going to be swept up into the sky as everything suddenly grows silent. It never comes. The ground shudders in anticipation a great rumble sounding from way up above. The Altmer's breathing suddenly picks up, heart hammering, panic mode setting in. This is it, this is how he dies. Where's Aetherian, where is he? Did he escape, is he hurt, gods is he __dead __? Like a lost small child all he wants is his big brother to hold him and tell him everything is going to be alright. Another part of him begs to see Yvonril, begs for the knight to swoop in at the last moment and spirit him away. Perhaps it's for the best. Perhaps if they're not here they'll survive to live on and remember, to be haunted by nightmares for the rest of their lives. Myrimae suddenly bursts into tears as a horrible crashing sound rips the sky asunder, his feeble hands clinging to what appears to be the remains of one of the carts for support. He doesn't want to see anymore, doesn't want to hear, eyes scrunched shut, shivering and shaking from the terror, hiccups popping from him as he weeps alone. When nothing happens suddenly a thought hits him. The dragon, it hasn't moved. It hasn't come for him! He… he can escape! He can run. Myrimae detaches himself from the pitiful stakes of wood forcing his shaking legs to push him forwards, one step, two steps, then running as fast as he can to where he knows the gates lay. So close, just a few more meters… then the world __breaks __around him. For one dreadful second he's suspended in midair eyes wide open, everything upside down, spinning in every direction as if someone scooped the world up and started to shake it violently. Myrimae can't comprehend it, can't understand. Why is he... why? He returns to the embrace of cold cobbles with a sickening crunch, stone meeting soft flesh, head meeting ground, pain finally registering with a ferocious intensity. Silence for a fleeting moment, the rush of wings overhead and cracking of flame the only sounds he can hear through the blackness. Silence. Then a pitiful, mournful wail pierces the quiet.

Everything is black, as if somebody pulled the veil of night over the early morning sky, stealing the sunlight and hiding it behind the gloom. Ebony tones is all he can see through the pain that pounds in his head, the shadows moving like a deep dark fluid, his viscous consciousness barely able to comprehend. The shadows are moving, alive almost. And it hurts, oh gods it hurts, why does it hurt? He wants it to stop, he needs it to stop, the pain is like lightning lancing through his body every time he dares to twitch. Small heaving breaths shake his battered form and he tries not to think about how terrible he must look laid in the dirt and… and the… well he just can't remember right now, it's not important. He does need to wake up though, how long has he been left abandoned in the cold? Slowly the darkness ebbs away like the night being kissed by a rosy dawn except day is not what greets him on the other side. A single blue eye opens, tears blurring all it can see and he slowly blinks them away. The world comes back into focus, flames of orange licking at the decrepit wooden ruins all around him, the stone walls not faring much better either laying in piles of rubble. Is that how it should be? Should the village be burning like this? It doesn't feel normal but it's so hard to think as if someone shoved bushels of cotton into his head and he just can't pull it all out. He… he can't think, everything hurts too much. He doesn't panic in fact he's sure he doesn't even know what panicking means anymore. He can't move, limbs sore and aching not obeying his commands, numb fingers scraping the dirt betwixt the cobbles dirtying his already grubby gloves further. His left arm twitches involuntarily an agonized wail tearing it's way from bruised lips when the pain cascades from where it's bent at a wrong angle, bone sticking out through soft flesh and shredded black robe. Oh gods, __oh gods __he can see the __bone __! Lungs that already struggle with the foul air can barely breathe through the panic, each breath searing white hot pain, stabbing in his throat and burning in the depths of his chest. Weakly he uses his other arm, the one not snapped in half, to press at his heaving chest a vain attempt to calm a frantic heart that hammers away like an over eager miner digging for gold but __by Auri-El it hurts __. Why does it hurt? He only touched his chest why does it hurt so __bad __? Think think, how did this happen, where does it hurt the most? It's useless. It's as if he's blundering through sheets of thick fog with nowhere to turn, only empty space in all directions. He...he can't remember anything. Oh by the Gods why can't he remember anything? What's his name? The youth whimpers as a thick trickle of blood dribbles down his face and with his uninjured arm he shakily attempts to wipe it away but pain flares up across his back as he reaches like a cold shock slamming into his body, overriding the other aches and pains. Not good, __not good __. He needs to roll over, needs to find a more comfortable position, that's what his mind tells him, why, who knows but if that's what his instincts tell him that's what he'll do. Small movements, sharp breaths, everything feels so far away suddenly but at least his legs feel only bruised, thank the gods for small mercies. Using his right arm to brace himself, he tries to go __up __, standing is a bad idea but he needs to get somewhere safer and out of the dirt __. __Slowly… slowly… then something snaps. Hot blood splatters onto the ground when he tears the burnt and oozing flesh of his back and back onto the ground he goes, dropping like a pebble in a deep lake to the cobbles feeling the cold stones scrape against abused skin.

The world is caught in a fuzzy haze. Warm, like a soft blanket but not nearly as comforting. But he doesn't feel warm, even if the steadily growing pool of blood around him bears the same heat as smouldering embers he still remains chilled to his very bones, body shivering despite the flames burning around him like a merry parade of heat mocking his fall. Every tiny twitch, every laboured breath is laced with pain, it's all he knows. He's dying, that much is clear even in the fog. Yet through the murk, through the smoke and nipping cold someone is shouting, voice carrying over distant rumbles and anguished cries of others sharing his fate. They're shouting, close by, and much too loud for such a mournful scene. Gently he cradles his snapped arm to his heaving chest and lays in the ashes of a ruined town. But that shouting is closer now, heavy footfalls cutting through the foggy quiet like thunderbolts, closer and closer.

"Mae? Oh __Mae __there you are thank the Go-oh… oh __fuck. __"

Ah, so __that's __his name. Weakly he cracks open a single eye, deep blue staring out into the smoke, an empty feeling filling his being. He knows this voice from somewhere as it swims through the emptiness to reach him, he's sure he does but Mae can't think, everything is too much of a mess. Too empty, too quiet, too loud, too painful, too __everything __! But none of that matters right now, not a scrap of it. What does matter is that something has awakened within him, something stirs in the depths of his being willing to fight and thoroughly disgusted that he's just accepted death like this! This great bubbling fury that snarls and hisses tells him to get off his wounded back and on to his front, screw the pain in his chest that makes him wheeze and choke, the need to stop rubbing more dirt into open and bleeding wounds is greater, the risk of infection high. His back is soaked in sticky red, the ground is too. It drips all down his injured arm and down his face like ribbons of elegant ruby velvet, each flek and splatter adorning him like polished garnets. Surely all of this isn't from his body, __surely __. He's losing too much blood, has __lost __too much blood, he needs to do __something __quickly or he's dead. He can almost feel it crawling down his neck and squeezing at his struggling throat, he is quite literally dying __. __And if he's going like this, if this is how he passes from this world, Mae at least wants to be in as little pain as possible and that means front down and getting off his back as soon as possible. It won't be painless by any means, might even kill him faster actually but what does he know? Mae's willing to take his chances. His dry lips mumble something that sounds like help me, tired eye staring at the owner of the voice, wincing as the flames glint off golden armour. It's a man and he looks terribly worried, fretting as he searches his knapsack for potions, coming up with nothing but empty space. He's in a real state, Divines know what he looks to the outside eye, Mae knows because this man is __crying __. He's weeping like a small lost child because of __him __. Why? Why cry over… over __this __? Over the pains he has to suffer. Shards of rock, still smouldering, lay littered around them both, the offending article that struck him down. Ha, what a way to go! Struck by an object streaking from the sky, called down by a dragon, a beast of myth and while the world is throwing it's punches let's set it one fire too! How did he even survive in the first place? Thinking is just making him feel nauseous so he doesn't.

"I need your help." It comes out a mumble and slurred but it gets the man's attention.

"W-what… Mae you, what do…" He takes a deep calming breath, raising an arm to wipe away his dripping tears but only able to smear dirt across one cheek, "What do you need?"

"Front. Help me roll." A wheeze but he seems to understand.

The man does not look pleased about that but when Mae uses both arms, broken and otherwise, to brace himself even though he cries out through the pain he is quick to change his mind quickly supporting the wounded in a frantic panic. Slowly, but surely, he helps him turn. Finally, __finally __, Mae's able to roll on to his front, blood almost spurting from the wound on his head now there's nothing there to stem the flow and he groans rubbing his face into the dirt. Everything hurts so bad, this was not a good idea, he thinks bitterly to himself. The ground starts to sickeningly sway again his body feeling like it's afloat down a turbulent river as fresh tears find their way onto his cheeks. Mae openly begins to sob into the ground, wheezing and gagging and heaving with the effort of it, pathetic mumbles spewing from his mouth. The person who came to his rescue doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what comfort to give but he tries anyway. Armoured hands grasp onto the injured's right arm, the one that isn't broken, crooning soft words as the world falls apart around them both, dragonfire burning those who dare to defy their wretched fates to naught but cinders. Mae turns his head, only very slightly, to look at the stranger, wanting to at least see one last friendly face but it feels like his head is glued to the ground, blood now smeared all over his pale face from where he lays in it. He manages, eyes able to take in gold and copper, blurred by watery tears. His heart skips a beat. This is a whole new kind of pain, welling up from inside, spilling out of every crack in his failed defences like a broken vase. Yearning, desperate and confusing. Gold is filling his vision. Gold eyes, gold skin, gold armour and hair the colour of the setting sun. Mae __knows __this man, knows him deeply even if his mind is as clear as the skies during a summer storm. Why can't he remember him? Heart aching, Mae grasps back, a name he can't remember dancing out of reach, lips forming it anyway, without his bidding.

"Mae…" The man speaks softly to him, voice barely above a whisper as if afraid that anything louder may shatter him, "Can you, uh, can you use magic?"

Mae lifts a shaking hand but all he's able to conjure is a pitiful fizzle of flame before it dies out and he lets his arm drop limply to the ground. His companion, this golden man, gives him a sad look for his efforts, sympathy twisting that handsome ash smeared face of his, and he holds out a single tiny blue potion bottle. It's all they have, he says, their last hope but it'll help. Nothing red and bitter on the tongue, nothing to __heal __with, to soothe his aches, nothing to brush away his bruises or seal his wounds shut. He's not sure he can drink that, he's barely able to swallow his own spit, throat so sore that even breathing stings. But he __aches __. Mae is in __pain __and whatever the wretched being that is buried neath the mountains of suffering is it tells him to drink deep and try another spell. Will it help? Will it kill him faster? He doesn't care so long as this is over soon. The man knelt by his side, seems to understand Mae's thoughts without needing more spluttered words and oh so gently supports him as they both attempt to pull his injured frame into a sitting position. For a moment Mae just sits, looking around, eyes no longer blurred by tears. Those less fortunate lay covered in ashes only a few short steps away, some crushed by rubble, some still aflame. Strong walls have crumbled, houses smashed into splinters and a great black shadow circles the ruins from above. There's no time to waste with observations as the man holding him up holds the blue potion to his lips and gently begins to dribble the sour potion into Mae's mouth. He sputters at first, the blue tingling fluid dripping down his chin but the two of them settle into a rhythm despite his insistent need to choke on it. Slowly he can feel some strength return to him, wounds still oozing blood and body still abused but now he feels like he can do something about it, like he can conjure more than just weak sparks. It is __not __going to be pretty. One uninjured arm is raised, as if begging for judgement from above and he tries to cast the spell he's thinking of, something to wish away all his hurts but focusing on what he wants to do is excruciating. Mae finds his mind empty, an abyss filled only with echos. He knows the spell as deeply as he knows… nothing. He knows __nothing __save fragments of fragments, sharp, elusive, and so very difficult for his wheeling consciousness to grasp. This spell is one such fragment, begging to be cast. His arm shakes from the effort.

__Focus __. Teeth grit, body shaking, he needs to focus or else nothing will happen. Those strong arms hold him, failing form relaxing into the comfort there even if the sharp points of the armour digs into already abused flesh. Mae ponders not on why this man's embrace offers reprieve, ponders not on why it feels so __right __to be held so tenderly by the stranger. He simply focuses, using the sensation as an anchor, using the man's soft words, gentle like song, as a conduit. __Stay __, his heart cries, a terrible painful wail, __stay like this __. The need to give up, to lay down and let the cold take him raises its ugly head but determination wins in the end. Laying down, closing his eyes and giving in means death, it means the end so Mae focuses as hard as he can, trembling like a dry leaf caught in a gale. Gold light and a soft humming shimmers around him, broken bones snapping back into place with the same vile crunch they made when he slammed into the cobbles. Whimpers, both from pain and horror, tumble from him, he nearly stops, gagging and heaving but he can't. He can't force himself to stop this, it's __helping, __despite the horrible sensation of flesh stiching closed, of bruises ebbing away. Mae keeps the spell going for as long as he can, head wound slowly scabbing up then suddenly, his strength fails, collapsing back into those waiting arms like a sack of potatoes hurled from a wagon. Once again he's wheezing for air, this time against the man's armoured chest where his heart hammers in anticipation. It it the smoke? Probably. He hopes so at least. That can be fixed with ease, a potion of healing may clear it up, then bed rest and clean air will do the rest but any more extensive damage is going to be __problematic __. Broken ribs, internal wounds, all big problems Mae hopes he won't be dealing with. He sucks in a deep breath, lungs spurring him into a rattling, shaking cough that shakes his whole body head to toe the taste of coppery blood on his tongue. It's still a threat, better than it was but he's still a torn up mess, his back no better than it was before his little spell. Now he can rest little, gather some strength before they move.

Everything shakes, a great rush of wings battering them with furious winds from above, the dragon bearing down upon them, ruby eyes blazing like fires from the deep.

Mae wants to weep again, head throbbing hands covering his blood splattered face, body sluggish now he's finished casting his magic. That something inside him, the part that spurred him into action, won't let him slip away, won't give up without a fight and it won't let him rest, not while that beast is circling the village like a ravenous wolf on the prowl. He is not allowed to slip, not into blissful rest nor into coldest sleep. There's something important he __needs __to do, what was it again? He settles for wiping the blood from his face with a soiled sleeve, clearing it from his eye so he can finally see __properly __. The golden man who came to his aid watches the sky through the columns of smoke, the sun no longer shining down upon the world, covered in an ebony shroud. Everything is bathed in darkness, bodies laid in the street bloodied and charred monuments to all the grief caused by the monster in the skies above. They have to move, have to get out of here and into shelter away from the open sky or the dragon will come back for them, to finish what it started! Or this, this struggle, his injuries, will be for nothing! Now the worst of the pain has passed, the panic sets in in short heart stopping bursts and bubbling anxiety forcing his headache to worsen into furious pounding once again, insides attempting to claw their way free of this feeble prison. His arms wrap around his companion unconsciously, like they belong there. He's still so weak, he can't possibly walk. But they need too, they need to leave.

"Help me stand." Mae's words are little more than a croak, parched throat barely able to make a sound.

" __What __? Mae, we… we can't just- you're injured." The reply is a splutter, tainted by horror and shock, "If I move you all that we've done- that __you've __done- it's going to just- I don't…"

Mae shakes his head, ears ringing, " __Please __. We have to." Divines he sounds so pitiful, like a lost child.

"No… No I can't… no, no."

Very well then. Mae places both arms, still shaking, on the man's shoulders and pushes himself up with the wan strength he has in his legs, swaying unsteadily and immediately falling back down with a pained grunt. He fails, of course he does, it does not stop a second attempt where he finds his feet shaking and panting with the effort, sweat rolling down his skin, back oozing slowly but he does not give up. Suddenly, there's a pair of hands on his hips, holding him still, supporting his valiant efforts. The man oh so very carefully keeps him on his feet, prepared in case Mae simply drops down to the floor like a pebble in a puddle once again. It is not allowed, he's up now and it'll take an army to bring him back down. At least, this is a victory, he's convinced his...friend? It strikes Mae again that he knows this man, somewhere in his being but he just can't recall his name. Despite being as empty as a the void itself, a little light shines through, a pinprick in the darkness. Yes, they know one another, those golden eyes tell him so, reflecting his own fear, his own suffering back at him like a well polished shield of moonstone. How many times have they gazed at one another in situations so different than this? He knows not, only that they have. His name. What is his name? The dragon passes by again, leathery wings beating the sky, it's jaws snapping a soldier in half with one singular motion.

"If we're moving, if you __really __want this then we're going to get to that tower there, okay Mae? We're… we're gonna get over there and then we're sorting out that back good and proper. We're… we're gonna make it out, yes?" Soothing, if a little hoarse, Mae agrees all the same, the tower seems to be the safest place, damaged but still standing, a silent sentinel watching the chaos unfold.

"I don't know if I can walk…" It sounds silly now he's on his feet, now that's he's struggled just to stand but the world is spinning in a myriad of colours and sounds and his legs feel like they're as weak as sticks.

"I'll carry you if I have to, we'll get there, I know we will! Just… just trust in me, Mae, trust in me. I'll be with you."

Through the fire and the flames, the two gaze at the looming lonely tower, it's bleak walls casting dark shadows over the scene, it's shattered top sharp as the beast's fangs. Walking, the thought of walking, makes his anxious heart flutter. He's going to have to actually, __physically __use his legs for more than standing and they already shake from the effort of simply being upright, feeling as solid as water. This wasn't the best of his ideas actually, probably the worst but what choice do they have? Stay long enough and they're both dead as dead can be, more casualties to add to the pyres. They're here now, stood in the ashes and __gods that's a lot of blood __. Mae doesn't look, doesn't try to think about how all of has come out of him. They start moving, the man guiding his weary bones around the piles of corpses and debris. Legs aching, body shuddering, but they go ever onwards, inch by inch they move towards the lone tower where the dragon once perched atop. Now it's filled with fleeing soldiers under the banner of the Bear, blue and silver, escaping a kinder death on the block, the headsman's axe seems a far more merciful death than this. Slowly, so slowly, they make their way forward and that __damned prisoner __is still stood there amongst the carnage staring them down, as if waiting for them to fail. Mae knows he's seen him there before. Before he was hit, before the pain descended upon him, before the world was plunged into a never ending nightmare. Ashen skin and white hair caught in the wind like a cloud of pale smoke and a pair burning eyes, flame tinted, and as purple as the sweet wisteria trees his fractured memories tells him he knows. Mae stares at the strange man, garbed in rags and looking as if he __belongs __here, surrounded by death, feet buried in the warm ashes. Mae stares, the prisoner stares back, those eyes piercing right through his soul, unblinking and terrible.

Great wings rend the air, a voice like rolling thunder breaks the moment, all eyes turn to the sky. Mae realises, with a sudden grim horror that he...can understand those words. They are words, yes? He's not lost his mind, he knows he hasn't, head injury or not. Perfectly coherent and not touched by Sheogorath's madness but the dragon __is __spewing words. Words that make the fire come, that shake the sky and stone below. Mae's own eyes scour the sky, the dragon circling overhead, bearing down upon them, an almost frenzied fear seizes him. The sight spurs the prisoner into action, light feet dancing over the ground as if he's weightless, dodging the meteors with practiced ease like he's been doing this all his life. He's suddenly at Mae's side, supporting him as the other man does. Lithe but strong, he helps them move forward, faster than he'd like. __Please __more slowly. The words don't make it out, catching in his throat. His legs ache from the strain, his back complains, the burns and lacerations numbing his mind with pain.

"Best move faster lest you become as burnt as my homeland, Altmer." He hears the Dunmer say, low and meaningful. He's right but Mae sorely wants to not do that.

All Mae can do is nod, and focus on putting on foot in front of the other, trying to ignore how the Dark Elf's hand presses into his injured back, how his legs wobble when the dragon touches down. He ignores the screams of the dying all around him and just focuses on stumbling towards relative safety, a single soldier in blue urging them join him, blond hair a halo illuminated by the embers. The three tumble through the door, flames licking at their heels spewn from the beast's maw just before the weathered wooden door is slammed shut. A moment of baited breath follows, nobody in the small room dares to move, each dirty soldier looking from one to the other. The beating of wings once again fills the silence as the dragon takes to the sky and the whole contingent of people sigh in unison, muttering prayers and thanks to too many gods to count. Mae's legs finally buckle with the relief, the ground a welcome rest, head lolling back to rest against the stone wall, he closes his eyes to the argument that already seems to be brewing between the others. Almost tells them to shut up, to leave it for later but, even in this weakened state, weary as can be, he knows he won't be heard. For now, he leans against the wall, it's cold stone a comfot. Blue eyes slip shut and he rests.

"Don't sleep, tis far too dangerous for you to slip into rest lest you leave us entirely."

Mae cracks open his weary eyes to gaze up at the Dunmer with a huff, "Tired. I jus' want to-"

"Yes child, I know, but you can't. Sit up you're not doing your wounds any favors." His voice is smooth as silk even as he cuts Mae off, violet eyes looking down upon the broken boy at his feet, "Tis not a good thing to feel this way when one has been so terribly wounded."

The Dunmer has a nasty scowl on his face, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed, he looks ready to launch into a lecture but he doesn't, he just stands there dwelling on his foolish mistake that was offering aid to two struggling Altmer. The tiny tower is packed with at least several furious looking Nords, each with their own injuries and each staring him down with varying degrees of disgust. Mae can feel their glares crawling all over him like he's some form of vile curiosity but he knows that the armoured man and the Dark Elf linger nearby both with hard stares of their own. What now? They're here, in this dimly lit room packed in with filthy unwashed Nords waiting for the already assaulted tower to crumble further while a beast from legend scours the skies spewing flame from its maw. It's as if they're waiting for death. Now they've stopped running, now he's back on the ground, everything seems so cold, so dreamlike and fluid, just out of grasp but still there. And by the Divines it hurts. More than anything he's ever felt. It's as if his blood has been laced with burning poison, every twitch sending jolts of white hot pain through his back and arms, his head throbbing as it lolls to the side a strained groan finding its way from him. At least, he thinks dimly, he's more fortunate than the two dead soldiers laid unceremoniously on the ground. One has his throat slit, a quick easy death to keep the suffering at bay, they'll tell his family he died a hero and the girl curled by his side still has wet tears on her cheeks, hands clasping an amulet to her chest, her final prayers still lingering on her lips. The tower shudders and groans, in the distance a roar of fury. For a moment nobody breathes and as the sound of beating wings passes over head each and every one of them exhales sharply. Even in the state he's in Mae knows they can't stay here much longer lest the dragon come for them or, gods forbid, the stones tumble down upon their waiting heads. He looks from face to face, two very cross looking blonds in a quiet discussion, his armoured friend leaning against the wall, arms crossed and body Dunmer stares into nothing, eyes soft and distant, as if he's not really with them, as if he's as far away from here as Mae feels. Distant, spinning, even as one of the brutes steps forwards a hideous sneer on his dark haired Nords turns to whom Mae assumes is his leader, a large man garbed in finery too nice for such a disastrous day.

" __They're __not welcome here!" He spits, gesturing wildly at the injured mage and soldier by his side, "Them two are Dominion __dogs __. An' that other one's a shady lookin' __wench __too!"

"Mind your tongue lest I cut it loose from that gaping howler you have. What would you have me do? Leave them out into the ashes and let the dragon chew them up for a quick breakfast? I think not, tis not your choice. Ah, and before you call me a __wench __again, think a little, I may be without weapon but I am a child born of ash and pain and me and my kin are well known for being __hot headed __, so to speak. " The Dunmer suddenly snaps back looking as if he's almost itching to take the sod by the shoulders and forcibly shake sense into his dense head. Mae watches him takes a breath, before continuing with a more reasonable outlook, "If you didn't notice, that beast cares not which banner you fly, only that you're in its way. Corpses of all factions lay in the dirt so why not suck it up and focus on getting out of here __alive __? It takes but one person to err and that one person dooms everyone!"

The man looks less than thrilled but he backs down, cowed by the fury the small elf spits at him and, hopefully, by the sense he's spewing as well. The world blinks in and out of focus, a hazy mist hugging the corners of his vision and Mae can feel himself grapple with his consciousness like trying to catch water with an open palm, letting it trickle past down into a shadowy abyss. A cold hand presses at his sweat covered brow, unconcerned by the blood staining his skin or the dirt streaking his face. Blue eyes gaze wearily into concerned violet, the Dunmer wearing a small frown and eerily quiet, worrying his lip. He can only imagine how terrible he looks to those around him, like a poor discarded broken doll a child no longer wishes to play with, stuffing falling out and button eyes hanging on by a thread. He can feel his ragged black robes cling to his back like eagar clammy fingers, stuck to the wound where the blood has begun to dry, pulling sharply every time he twitches from the pain. He probably looks as if he's been savagely mauled by a bear. Jagged cuts and torn skin, he'll definitely scar if he comes out of this ordeal alive but what worries Mae the most, even if his head is stuffed with fog and it becomes harder and harder to hold a coherent thought in his mind, is that he can still feel himself bleeding. Or perhaps his burns have begun to blister, the run here staining the injuries making them pop and leak foul pus down his lower back. He almost heaves at the thought. Every breath is a knife between the ribs. Each exhale feels like touture, like someone has poured molten iron down his parched throat and straight into his veins. Every heartbeat feels slower and slower, the fog that clouds his vision deepening, words simply washing over him as his fellow Altmer mutters meaningless comfort to him. Mae whines when those chilly fingers are pulled away, that violet stare hard as stone when the strange man turns back to the group of blue and grey blurs. Even without full lucidity he can taste the bitter fear in the air as the tower shakes, a lonesome cry echoing in the tiny space like a funeral song, their chances of escape growing more and more slim by the moment.

Someone is shouting nearby, nothing but a smudge of black and gold, their words hardly making any sense. Something about moving, something about going up? Mae's not sure, the words sound jumbled and distant, his harsh breathing drowning out the snapped reply as a mass of grey steps forward into the frey, voice smooth and calming, even when wielding anger like an axe. More words, more senseless yelling then silence, the only thing stopping him from floating away is a strong hand wrapped around his shoulders, his head resting against cool metal. He's not sure how, or even when, he moved into this position but he has no qualms about it, it's more comfortable than the unforgiving stone wall. More words, calmer this time, discussion, a parlay betwixt the grey and black shadowy figures who dance in his blurry vision mingles with the soft words of his companion at his side. Mae blinks, only once but he can feel those hands return to his face and he graces the world again with his dull blue eyes. He can hear the worry in their tone, sense the urgency of the situation but he feels like lead, heavy and unable to even lift a finger, body slowly becoming numb even to the searing pain of his wounds. Something warm trickles down his face onto the person shaped blur's fingers, their hand quickly pulled away with a gasp and a curse. The world spins sickeningly as he's tilted forward without warning, his body heaving with the sudden motion a vile bitterness bursting onto his tongue. Those hands ever so gently probe at his wound but it feels like he's being slapped, voice weakly crying out, body only able to shudder not twist away from those prying fingers like he wants to. Again the probling retreats only to cruelly pull at his scalp, scratching nails attempting to claw their way to the weeping wound there too. Blindly he swats at the unknown person as that calming voice picks up a verbal battle with another, his hands only finding air before someone else's hand grasps it, the metal of their ring an almost burning cold, almost an electric shock. The tower groans and shivers once again, their doom edging ever closer. An order is snapped out, a chorus of footsteps assaulting the stairs. A moment of bated breath before a thunderous crash, stones coming loose showering the wounded in light debris, Mae dumbly raising his aching hands to his ears whining like beast in a beartrap. He tries to breathe but he can't, choking on each shallow breath.

Suddenly he's going up, metal jabbing into his wounds a terrible scream clawing its way from him between laboured gasps, eyes rolling back into his skull, the world goes black.

It's the voices that bring him back, the sky covered in swirling grey clouds, columns of jet black smoke billowing high enough to touch the stars, the flames licking at the twin moons if they showed their pale faces. Outside… a stiff breeze blows ashes into his face as the scenery passes by in a blur, only two sets of footsteps registering. A great shadow blots out the wan sunlight, someone's screams cut short, a thump to their left. There's shouting and swearing, an exasperated sigh then darkness. For a moment he thinks he's gone at last, slipped away into the quiet gloom, embraced by the void but then, in the distance, candlelight flickers. Golden, amber, warm. The arms that scrape his raw skin, weeping wounds and burns gently lower him to a soft welcoming surface, the smoke that clogs the air gone, his lungs finally able to gulp down clean air. He must look like a gutted fish splayed on a kitchen counter, crimson soaking what he's been laid upon, eyes dead and glassy. Mae slumps, allowing his body to go limp before a vile feeling twists deep inside of him and within seconds he's hanging off the bed retching weakly. It leaves him shaking all over, wide-eyed, horribly pained panting spewing from his gaping mouth as someone rubs the upper part of his back where the wounds don't reach. Gods… __gods __why this? Gentle hands lay him back on his side once his feeble gagging subsides, fluffing up a pillow and clinging to his hand for some form of meager comfort as he pants and gasps, eyes rolling back into his head once again as he struggles to stay awake. It's a losing battle, Mae can feel everything slipping away again and he squeezes that hand as hard as he can trying to anchor himself down from being swept away.

"What's his name?" A soft smooth voice, quiet and eerily calm but something to grasp, something to think about. If he thinks he can stay awake. Focus… he needs to focus.

A second voice stammers out a reply, just as quiet, "It's Mae… well uh, M-Myrimae really. I'm Yvon and uh-"

"Be still, child, I'm going to talk to him for a moment." A quick interruption, clearly someone has no time for a nervous breakdown. This is good, thinking is helping calm his nerves, helping him stop worrying about everything. The first voice continues in the same gentle tone, voice like honey, "Yvon then, can you help sit him up, we'll need him on his back first I'm afraid we have little choice. I'll need you to support his head he's not going to be able to drink these potions on his own, he'll choke. Well… he can but we hardly want him to be sick again do we?"

"His __back __? I… I can't lay him back on that! He's been on it enough I don't even… I can't…"

"Tis a wound and you can, you must. Look at him, pale as snow and covered in bruises, he's already suffering. Pressure on the wound will help, especially if those furs soak up some of the blood. Yes it will hurt, yes he may cry but sometimes to heal we must hurt. Do you understand? Roll him on his back, get behind him to stop him falling and make him sit or else he'll drown on the potion that's going to save him." Firm, commanding but encouraging, Mae braces for what's to come.

He doesn't scream, doesn't cry out when the scratchy furs tickle his wounds, he only whimpers and groans. Then he's going up a fresh wave of sickness assaulting every one of his senses. Eyes tightly shut breathing harshly through his nose it passes, armoured hand tracing comforting circles on the back of his own. When he opens his eyes his vision is still clogged and misty, candles flickering slowly in the gloom but he knows now it'll be over soon. Sitting is more tiring than he remembers though and he slumps back against the man behind him, mindful of his wounds but sorely sick and tired of caring. He is weary of the struggle, weary of this place, of the dragon and the emptiness in his head. Mae is sick of this, and that and everything! He wants to sleep, wants to rest!

"Hello, Mae is it?" Blue eyes crack open, acknowledging the violet pair that stare back, that calming voice brushing away all his anger in an instant as it begins to gently croon at him, "Ah, there we are! Tis nice to see you awake. I'm Nerelyn, call me Lyn, __everyone __does. You're in a pretty bad shape hmm, been knocked about all over the place, doesn't feel too good does it? Got hit by the dragon," He lets out a frightened whimper, "Don't worry, we're safe now, don't cry. See your friend is right behind you stopping you from falling over so you just keep those eyes open for me…"

The person continues to speak softly, the clinking of bottles weaving in with the hypnotic sound luring him into a relaxed, almost dreamy reverie. Something cold is pressed to lips and he is bidden to drink deep as a burning potion is dribbled into his waiting mouth, only sluggishly as he splutters and struggles to swallow it all down, the hand feeding him shaking as if they wish to stop. Suddenly his throat opens up and he's gulping down the scorching liquid as fast as he can, the crushing pain in his chest lessening as bones knit back together, a horrible crunch sounding out. Mae is unable to stop the cry that pours from his open mouth, eyes blown wide as he gasps for air like he's drowning. His companions almost panic but as his breathing deepens, wheezing turning to soft breaths as a second potion is lifted to his lips, the wound on his head sealing shut, the fog in his head finally lifting, vision clearing to reveal a dimly lit room lined with several beds and merry candles. A Dunmer garbed in strange armour sits in front of him, two empty bottles at his side and busy uncorking a third, two blue potions still sat in his lap. Behind him he assumes is his hero, the other Altmer in brilliant moonstone with the flaming hair and strong hands that hold him steady as he reaches for the next bottle drinking it down in one swift gulp. Divines that's good stuff. Mae lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a deep sigh. He goes to lean upon his friend's front but as soon as his exposed back touches the metal he yelps, almost leaping forward. His back! Gods how could he forget his back! Without even being asked the Dunmer bends him forwards and inspects the injury, hissing at what he finds there fingers barely able to touch without making Mae twitch. Mara's mercy what now? They're out of healing potions, only magicka ones remain. He… he's going to have to heal himself again, isn't he? A small tickle of anxiety blooms in his chest at the mere thought, last time he left himself a shivering mess barely able to stand. But his back…

"Give me a potion." His voice is raw but he manages to croak out the words with at least some conviction.

A singular blue bottle is passed into his trembling hands, uncorked and ready. Like the last potion he drinks it in one, wincing at the bitterness but feeling energized, blood throbbing with power. A moment passes while he braces himself before raising both bloodied arms the soft song of healing filling the near empty room as a sweet summer-like golden glow wraps him in a warm embrace. Slowly, he can feel his wounds begin to close, burns fading back to normal healthy skin as bruises are brushes away like simple dirt. Minutes pass all occupants of the room watching his display of magic when suddenly he spell is cut short as he drops back into his saviours waiting arms pleased that no pain interrupts his rest this time.

"I did it!" He beams up at the two worried looking men, tears gathering in the corners of his blue eyes, "I did it, I'm okay. I'm okay!"

"You did… I…" His hero wipes his own tears from his face, "Welcome back Mae."

And Mae, too preoccupied with his little victory doesn't take note of the empty void that fills his head.


End file.
